Trajectories: Histories, Secrets, Possibilities
by Fever Dream
Summary: A collection of stories, each tale mapping out the inner life of a compelling character from the ME series. Varying lengths & genres. Shipping, dark themes & strong language. Same canonical universe as my fic, "Invictus". Latest installment: Garrus
1. Miranda: Rising Sun

**Miranda: Rising Sun**

Niket Baines was not a handsome boy. He had a snub nose, small, wary eyes and a mouth too wide for his narrow jaw, which lent his face an almost simian appearance. Miranda had noticed that he didn't have the easy manner of the rich and successful, that aura of assurance that her father's associates wore along with their tailored suits and silver cufflinks. There were times, even at seventeen, when Niket seemed to be a withered, shrunken old man, his forehead marked with faint lines and drawn tight with worry. When she touched his close-cropped hair, it bristled under her fingertips.

He wasn't brilliant or rich or particularly gifted to compensate for these physical defects. He hadn't even heard of most of the books she'd read, whereas she could quote entire pages on command. Advanced calculus baffled him and he squinted at the equations she completed in chalk on the blackboard as if they were hieroglyphics. When she played piano, he couldn't distinguish the notes of a scale or tell her the names of songs that hours of practice enabled her to perform thoughtlessly, without even glancing at the keys. His genes had been left to the whims of nature and the uncertain histories of his progenitors, his development given over to the lacklustre public school system and a series of overburdened and underpaid educators limping their way towards retirement. As Miranda's father had once noted, a lack of planning typically leads to a mediocre result, if not an outright failure. Everything about Niket's life had been unplanned, even his conception. As a result, he was thoroughly average in every way, except one: Miri loved him.

She would have been hard-pressed to say why. When she'd imagined herself falling in love (which she rarely did – her mind was occupied with other things, like lifting chairs with her biotics or perfecting her tennis swing or mastering the Goldberg Variations...) she had expected that she would seek out excellence. As she reached a certain age, her father had arranged opportunities for appropriate 'socialization' and so she had spent time in the company of other young scions of wealth and privilege, many of them also genetically modified or at least, as a selectively bred as racehorses. She had expected that she might find companionship among them, but she didn't enjoy these little parties, events where the adults smoked cigars and plotted their legacies while their teenage children flirted and showed off their new clothes. Miranda preferred the time she spent with Niket, son of the caretaker, roaming the grounds of her father's Queensland estate. On these walks, they often spoke about trifling matters but it never felt like small talk. She let him hold her hand even though his palms were clammy – in fact, she liked his nervousness, the concern he showed for her feelings. She wasn't used to being consulted on things, just handed a schedule, an assignment or a deadline.

Niket was the only one allowed to call her "Miri", a nickname that he had chosen for her. Her father had overheard it once and it'd displeased him. He had endowed her with a name and he would not allow her to use another on a childish whim.

"Tell me the origins of the name 'Miranda'," he demanded, fixing his watery blue eyes on her.

"It was invented by William Shakespeare for the female protagonist of _The Tempest_. He combined the feminine form of the Latin gerundive, 'mirandus', meaning 'admirable' and the Latin verb 'mirai' meaning 'to wonder at', to create the name, which means 'she who must be admired'."

She could have added that in _The Tempest_, the character Miranda had been the motherless daughter of a bitter old magician who'd kept her in almost complete isolation on an island he ruled like a despot. She could have said that, but she knew the aptness of the comparison would not be lost on her father.

Miranda knew the baby was coming before her father brought it into the nursery, a locked room in the east wing of the third floor. She'd hacked into the messaging systems at the labs and read over the plans for 'Lawson 2.0', poring over the improvements that they planned to make on what they'd already dubbed perfection. Apparently, this so-called 'prototype' Lawson daughter was too volatile, not social or empathetic enough. Her father wanted the next model to have a slimmer nose and a more delicate, heart-shaped face. It seemed that he had scrutinized her appearance, personality and intellect down to the smallest detail, judging what should be kept and what should be discarded. She found out when the child would be brought to the mansion and tracked the security protocols surrounding its care. It was to be treated with utmost secrecy, she discovered. Her father anticipated that his prototype might not appreciate her replacement and stoop to sabotage to bring his project down.

He had even settled on a name for the new addition to his dynasty: 'Oriana'. Miranda could have told him the origin of that one too. It was Latin for "sunrise". She knew the answer to any question he'd ever thought of asking. It occurred to her that she should envy the child, this Oriana, but she did not. Her sister did not deserve her hatred, not simply for being pulled into the world, endowed with gifts that could quickly become curses. It was her father who she loathed and upon whom she planned to exact her revenge.

At the next 'socialization' party she attended, she ignored the other teenagers and went into the smoke-filled lounge where her father's cronies drank and gloated about their stocks and acquisitions. She found Lyndon S. Fischer there, an uninspiring sight with his ruffled mouse-grey hair and rumpled Armani suit. If she didn't know better, she would have assumed that he was a down-on-his-luck PR executive, not a top recruiter for Cerberus, an organization founded to champion the best of humanity.

"Hello, Mr. Fischer," she said, sidling up to the bar. "I have a proposition for you."

He took a sip of his brandy, his eyes glued to the sportscast showing on the flatscreen TV on the wall. His answer was cautious and quiet, but betrayed more eagerness than his stolid face would have suggested. "I'm listening."

It wasn't hard to convince him. Cerberus needed agents like her and while they were loath to lose her father's funding, she was the best asset he could 'donate' to cause. She would serve them loyally, for the sake of her own life and her sister's future.

It was more difficult to inform Niket of her plan. She took him out to the garden, leading him to the one place where none of the cameras were within visual range. They had to stand close together and she hushed him to ensure they would not attract attention. It was hard to know how good the audio systems were or what areas of the estate her father's security team might have bugged.

"I'm going to be leaving soon. I was wondering if you'd be willing to help me."

"Leaving? Why?"

"Why not? This place is dreadful."

"I know your father's a...difficult man. Just wait a little while longer," Niket said. "You'll be 18 soon. Go away to university. That'll get you out from under his thumb."

"It isn't that simple. You don't understand - if he has his way, he'll own me my whole life. And...there are other considerations."

Niket gaped at her. "Other considerations?"

"Yes, there are other people I have to think about. I have a twin and she's in danger. I need to protect her. We have to get off-world."

"You have a twin? Why have you never mentioned this before?"

"It's never been relevant."

"It seems awful relevant now."

She gave him a rueful smile. "Yes, it does, doesn't it? Will you help me or not?"

"You know me, Miri. I could never say 'no' to you. I just wish there were...some other way. I'm going to miss having you around."

"Thank you. I'll – I'll miss you too, but I have to do this, Niket. I wish I could explain everything, but you just need to trust me. I'm acting for the right reasons."

Quietly and quickly, she explained what he'd have to do, knowing that he was already well-acquainted with the estate's security rooms. All she'd require was a thirty-second black-out in the eastern wing of the third floor. The deactivation codes were already in her possession, decrypted and copied from the hard-drive of her father's computer. She gave them to him, reminding him to watch out for the security drones, to remember the timing. No one would have to know what he'd done, so long as he was careful and stuck to plan. She wanted to believe that but she knew she was asking him to put himself in grave danger, the kind that a sensible boy, one who wasn't her friend, who didn't love her, would have surely refused.

Niket nodded and as he did, she leaned forward and kissed his too-wide mouth, her arms wrapping around him. She was distressed when he did not kiss her back, pushing away from her and into the range of the security cameras, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You didn't have to do that, Miri," he said quietly. "I would've helped anyway. I don't need payment."

Miranda stared at him, shame coiling inside her, a tapeworm leeching away her strength, her self-possession. Niket could see under her clothes, into her skin – she felt sure of it. He knew what her father had done. At first, the old man only did it when he was drunk, but later, he'd been sober, alternating threats with words of unaccustomed affection. He frightened her most when he pretended to be kind. "It wasn't payment," she snapped.

Niket chewed on his lower lip, his prominent brow ridge shadowing his eyes. "I just know who I am and who you are. I'm ordinary. And you're...perfect. When you're away from here, I won't matter. I may not know classical music or advanced maths, but I know hard reality. Let's not make this hurt more than it already has to. I'll be happy knowing that you're safe. That you have a chance at being happy."

Perfect, he said. She'd been wrong. He didn't know. Niket's reaction had not come from disgust, but out of embarrassment, Miranda realized. He thought that she pitied him, that she was pretending to feel something she did not. She stood there, the sun warming her shoulders and the back of her neck, processing this knowledge and analyzing her response. There was sadness, certainly, and hurt, but a sense of gratitude also welled inside her. Niket was her friend, the only one she could really count on. He could be trusted. That was more precious and rare than any fairytale of romance. He would not demand anything she could not give and he would not accept any gifts that she did not offer freely. That was perfection. She doubted she'd ever see it again.

"Thank you, Niket," she murmured. It was all there was left to say.

The afternoon of her escape came and the chauffeur drove her father off to his biweekly golf game. Miranda snuck up to the third floor, walking to the east wing, and waited, watching the red light on the security door of the nursery. The light blinked off at Niket's signal and she pushed open the door, barrelling into the room and scooping up the sleeping infant. Miranda 2.0, her sister. Hell, practically her clone.

The baby started to wail, her wide blue eyes crinkling at the edges, her plump face getting puffy and pink. Little hands curled into dimpled fists. Miranda tried to hush her as she scurried out of the nursery and down the stairs, counting down the seconds in her head, the time it would take before the security drones pursued her. The baby stopped squirming, calming down when the blue blanket was tucked around her legs, but she didn't like to be jostled and continued to pucker up her face, staring at her elder sister, her almost-twin, with impudent eyes.

As Miranda reached the door of the estate, two drones hurtled towards her and she fired the antique pistol she'd smuggled out of her father's collection. The baby squalled, her cries loud and furious in her sister's ear. Miranda felled one droid with gunfire and then overloaded another. As it fell, it sent up a shower of sparks, a last gasp of smoke. She sprinted across the manicured lawns, turning back to shoot at another group of droids giving chase. They couldn't fire bullets at her or risk harm to the baby – it was against their protocols to damage Lawson Group property – but they had electro-nets and fired blasts of ice in her direction, freezing the grass into spiky white stalagmites and turning the paved garden path into a skating lane.

Miranda fumbled with the lock of the front gate, gripping the baby under her left arm. The child's screams became shriller and more hateful, breaking her concentration. "Shut up, damn you!" she muttered as she tugged at the wrought-iron gate. "It's for your own good."

She slammed the gate behind her, sealing off the droids, and ran away from the main road, towards the cover of the brush. The next four kilometres were hard going through dense forest, the baby sighing in the sweltering heat, eyes glassy and awestruck as she eyed Miranda, her enemy, her kidnapper and her only protector. The compass arrow pointed north and Miranda walked in the opposite direction, crossing a shallow stream and working her way uphill. Bowerbirds chattered in the canopy, tilting their heads and watching her progress with their blue bead eyes.

Finally, she reached the clearing and the Cerberus shuttle, destined for Melbourne and then for points unknown – somewhere amidst the stars and planets Miranda knew only from astronomy books and the view from her bedroom window. Humanity would make its way in space. She would be part of the unfolding destiny of her species. She would fulfil her true potential and accomplish more than her father had ever dreamed possible. Her sister would be safe, relocated to a far-away planet, perfect yet utterly ordinary, perfectly ordinary. She'd have a mother and a father and she would be treated as child, not a tool, a toy or a trophy. Miranda 2.0 – an improvement all around.

Sitting on the bench in the back of the shuttle, Miranda cradled the baby in her arms, trying to be gentle. The baby's skin felt hot, reddened by the sun and shortness of breath. The Cerberus agent – he was tall and staid, told her to call him 'Whitt'- had brought supplies to feed the baby and it wasn't hard to mix up some formula in a bottle. The baby didn't take to it right away, gumming the bottle's plastic nipple, but eventually, she started to take in the sludgy off-white concoction hungrily.

"Greedy guts," Miranda said, not without affection. She supported the baby's head with her hand, her fingers stroking the tufts of brown hair already sprouting over the bare scalp, taking on the appearance of a middle-aged man's bad comb-over. The baby watched her, not with terror or fury as before, but with shy affection, dark blue eyes mirroring Miranda's own. It occurred to Miranda that she could keep the baby. This could be her daughter, her legacy...but she was not the kind of person who was patient and giving and affectionate. She was not the kind of person who should be a mother. Besides, her affections were volatile; her love mingled with revulsion and even if she could get past those stumbling blocks, her father would be trailing her. Better to separate. They'd be safer apart.

"Oriana," Miranda murmured, testing the name's shape on her lips. It meant 'rising sun'. Outside the shuttle, Earth's sun was setting, the ragged clouds tinged with tender shades of pink, bruised purples, a bloody crimson. Night was falling on her father's reign and the beginning of something else, something that could only be better because it had nothing to do with the tyrant who had forced his genes and his will and his notions of perfection upon her until she could barely draw breath. In the end, it'd been only her stubbornness and her hatred of him that'd kept her from picking up a knife and slitting her perfect wrists just to spite him. Of course, her other sister, an older prototype, had actually managed to kill herself, perhaps believing it would hurt him. It hadn't stopped the old man from making others. But his dynasty was done, at least as far as she and Oriana were concerned. In the darkness, he'd rage at his security staff and plot his vengeance against her. In the morning, she'd board a flight from Melbourne, fixing her eyes on the fresh promise of the horizon and then on the clean, cool palette of sky, the atmosphere giving away to space.

"Oh, brave new world!" she would whisper, in imitation of her namesake. "Brave new world that has such people in it." And as Earth receded away from her, as small and sparkling as a new-cut sapphire, she would remember Niket, her first and only friend, who was neither handsome nor brilliant, or even especially talented, but possessed all the human perfection she'd ever aspired to.


	2. Samara: The Code

**Samara: The Code**

The Justifex, their instructor and prioress, handed them each a simple black book. There was no title written on the cover, only a gold drawing of a sword, yet Samara recognized it at once. It was what she had desired since the day she'd discovered that her third and final daughter had fallen under the curse, obliterating any remaining hope that her prayers had bought mercy from the heavens. It had occurred to her then that she'd asked the Goddess for the wrong thing and that this was a reproof, a reminder that one cannot bargain with the divine, not with chants, burnt incense or devotions, not even with the gift of one's soul. The Goddess would not be swayed by bribes or blandishments. Pity was not in her nature and to beg it of her, trembling and sobbing in a Thessian hospital ward, was mortal weakness. That day, Samara began to yearn for the Code, anticipating its dominion with the same eagerness she had felt before the birth of her first child, when it'd seemed that she would enjoy the comfortable life of a matron.

Samara cradled the Code in her hands, savouring its heft. At long last, she had earned the privilege of touching these pages, learning the wisdom of the Goddess and serving her absolute justice. Bowing her head, she pressed the book to her lips, kissing the soft cloth of the cover and the gold lacquer of the sword.

"From this day onward, the book is your life," the Justifex told them, her cold gaze sweeping across the ranks of aspiring justicars like a frost in autumn. "You will memorize every word. You will learn it so well that you can repeat it, forwards or backwards, in meditation, in battle, even in your sleep."

In the cloister, Samara studied and trained, pausing only for slumber, meditation or her single meal of the day, a plain breakfast. Her every breath was the Code. She stared at the book's pages until the paragraphs seemed to be inscribed under her eyelids. Her fingers traced over the embossed outline of the sword until she could have drawn its shape in the air. No longer did she dream, but instead, sank into a stony darkness as cool and tranquil as the embrace of the Goddess.

The Code was her atonement and her salvation, imposing order upon chaos and casting harsh light upon the shifting realms of shadow. It offered the cosmos the beauty of symmetry, the patterned gorgeousness of music or tapestry. The righteous were saved and the wicked received their punishment, these duties dispatched without compassion or cruelty, without brutality but also without regret. The Code did not speak of emotion, friendship, love or family – these matters were irrelevant to the will of the Goddess and to the dispensation of justice. Attachments and other affairs of the heart were not forbidden nor were they encouraged. The Code would prevail before them all. No one could escape it.

It should have terrified her, as it did many of the other recruits, but Samara rejoiced in this newfound emptiness, understanding that surrender had become her greatest strength. She did not have to suffer through the centuries without purpose. She could not have the domestic life she'd once desired, the love of her partner or the pleasures of raising her children and teaching them strength, integrity and independence, but her life was not without meaning. There was one thing left in her that could be salvaged. There was the Code. Only the Code. It was beautiful as an unsheathed sword graven in gold.


	3. Mordin: Bio

**Mordin: Bio**

_The following excerpts are reprinted from the second annotated and unabridged version of __Model of a Scientist Salarian: My Life and Research__, by Dr. Mordin Solus, (__2225-2226, all rights reserved) with permission from Vanguard Press, a subsidiary of Random House, Inc. and Citadel Entertainment. _

Introduction, by Professor Phineas Kafka, Chair of Salarian Studies, Trinity College, Oxford University

Dr. Mordin Solus (full name: Mannovai Escalpa Il Sigmak Zenon Solus Mordin) remains a fascinating and divisive figure in the era of galactic history that human scholars have dubbed the Age of Revelation (2148 -2200). Born in 2155 on Mannovai, Solus demonstrated an inquisitive nature, a strong work ethic and a degree of inventiveness that was remarkable even among salarians, who pride themselves on non-linear thinking. At the age of eight, he completed his medical degree at the University of Aegohr, earning a prestigious Dalatrass Grant and commencing an early career in biological research. Within a year, he had invented a vaccine to counter poxingus, a salarian wasting disease, as well as securing a patent on Atoxia, a medication used to prevent and counter the paralyzing effects of the bioweapon, saxitoxin. While these accomplishments alone would have been enough to assure Solus of tenure and acclaim within the salarian scientific community, this was just the beginning of his life's work, which would benefit countless millions, but also polarize public opinion for decades to come.

On the strength of his early achievements, the Special Tasks Group (STG) sought to recruit Solus, eventually succeeding in winning him over by appealing to his innate curiosity and desire to ensure galactic peace. In addition, while Solus seemed to derive great satisfaction from his research, he did not enjoy many of his obligations as an academic lecturer. He was frustrated by the amount of time he had to spend marking rudimentary lab assignments and responding to the constant demands of his grad students, some of whom he considered entitled and lazy. His pupils revered him as a scientific genius, but were baffled by his eccentric pedagogical techniques, which included a tendency to speak in point-form tangents rather than full, grammatical sentences. This habit became more marked as Solus aged and seems to have impacted even his writing style, as one may note from a brief perusal of his autobiography.

Solus' association with the STG marks the beginning of a new epoch in his life, as well as the significant shift in his ideology that would later make him such a controversial figure in bio-ethics. While the doctor maintained strict standards regarding patient confidentiality and appropriate use of test subjects, his association with the genophage has damaged his reputation in some circles, leading to krogan protests at his memorial site on the Citadel. This unabridged edition of his life story sheds new light on the nature of Solus' work with the STG, which was much more extensive than the initial text indicated. Rather than simply monitoring the genophage, his team was actually assigned to modify its design, preventing krogan fertility rates from climbing above pre-specified levels. As Solus points out in the text, modifying the genophage was delicate work, imposing more scientific challenges and constraints than even the initial version of the project. Any mistakes made in this process might have presented dire consequences for the krogan species. These revelations further complicate the ethical quandary that Solus faced in choosing to join STG, as well as highlighting his brilliance as a xeno-biologist, one working under tremendous pressure in a high-stakes operation.

This new version of the autobiography also elaborates on Solus' feelings about the project, which changed throughout the course of his life, particularly as he gained new insights into krogan culture through his association with Tuchankan nationalist Urdnot Wrex and his disciple, Urdnot Grunt. While he never fully abandoned his pragmatic belief in the historical necessity of the genophage, Solus did experience remorse for the pain it inflicted on the krogan clans and these doubts motivated his future good works on Omega and on the SSR-2 Normandy. In human terms, one might be tempted to compare the scientist to two famous Earth-born counterparts, J. Robert Oppenheimer, the American physicist known as the "Father of the Atomic Bomb", and Henry Norman Bethune, the Canadian doctor famed for his service with wartime medical units in Spain and China. The first half of his life shows notable similarities to that of Oppenheimer, with successful academic stints, a diversity of research interests, a fascination with reincarnation and a secret appointment to a government weapons project. Both Oppenheimer and Solus have also been criticized by their scientific peers for working across numerous fields, never concentrating on a single area of study long enough to make significant progress. In later years, Solus read Dr. Bethune's biography and was impressed by his commitment to providing medical service to the poor, although, in characteristic fashion, he noted that even the lives of accomplished humans were not as productive as he had expected. His opinion of Oppenheimer is unknown, although his _Bhavada Gita_-inspired description of the Collector Base's destruction as the "...radiance of a thousand suns bursting into sky" would seem to be a tip of the hat to the human scientist.

When the first edition of Solus' autobiography was published posthumously in 2197, readers and reviewers focussed primarily on the later sections describing his membership in the 'Dirty Dozen' crew led by Commander Shepard. His achievements with this elite group have become his principal claim to fame, but with the publication of this new volume, it is now clear that his complicated scientific legacy is even greater than scholars had previously anticipated. Aside from his controversial work on the genophage modification project, Solus also invented numerous weapons technologies and prototypes, as well as making improvements to cybernetics that would allow amputees using electronic prostheses to have greater comfort and mobility. Furthermore, he is credited with treating Kepral's Syndrome, a disease that was once the leading cause of death among adult drell, establishing the Omega Medical Centre (renowned for its enterprising treatments of sexually transmitted diseases) and later, creating the Tuchanka Maternal Care Foundation, a krogan-run facility for obstetrics and women's health. With the defeat of the Reapers, the Citadel Council acclaimed Solus as a salarian hero, awarding him the Star of the Union and a seat on the board of the Citadel Institute for Cultural Advancement, where he championed scientific literacy and the development of a burgeoning salarian musical theatre.

As this list indicates, Solus' legacy extends far beyond his leadership on the genophage modification project. At the risk of being labelled a Solus apologist, I will note that his work has provided tremendous benefits to the galaxy as a whole. Furthermore, despite his collaboration with STG, he expressed great interest in the development of the krogan and during his later years, he was a tireless activist in Urdnot's clan unification movement. His autobiography has become a useful source in our understanding of salarian cultural development during this period, as well as providing crucial documentary evidence regarding the Reaper War (2186-2188). He is a product of his age, an epoch when salarian influence was waning in the face of the military clout exerted by the turian Hierarchy and the human Alliance fleets. It is his many personal and professional conflicts, the struggle between his scientific outlook and his desire for religious faith, his strong ties to the salarian clans brushing up against his curiosity about other species, which make Dr. Mordin Solus the very model of a scientist salarian and an intriguing subject for any scholar of his species' culture.

Excerpts from _Model of a Scientist Salarian: My Life and Research_, by Dr. Mordin Solus, second edition

_**First Contact with Commander Shepard**_

Clinical work on Omega increasing challenge with plague spreading. Mass panic and anti-human bias were especially disturbing. Lab-grown disease attacked respiratory systems of all non-human species, with exception of vorcha, which had natural immunity. Developed low-cost cure to spread through plague-zone ventilation systems, but presence of Blood Pack mercenaries prevented dissemination. Appearance of Commander Shepard and friends with heavy weapons proved beneficial.

First meeting with Shepard. Human female, appearance of skin, facial structure and physical condition suggest between 27-35 years of age. Was probably on higher end of that spectrum. Symmetry of facial features and body proportions indicated attributes of good constitution, health and fertility. Blonde hair and green eyes were rare genetic combination. Took that into account. Low levels of melanin in skin indicated that Earth-born ancestors came from northern climate. Higher risk of osteoporosis, melanoma, certain varieties of cancer. Impossible to guess intelligence from human appearance. Thought it safe to assume socio-cultural bias towards languages, analytical skills, conflict resolution and empathy, traits prized amongst females of her species.

Upon speaking, was impressed with directness, re: Cerberus connection and threat posed by Collectors. Sensed hesitancy in admitting association with human terrorist group, but pragmatism prevailed. Rational response. Sense of humour also good sign. Overall, positive impression. Decided I would not be averse to joining mission once Omega plague resolved. Did not anticipate development of lasting friendship or significance of future fight against Reapers.

_**Initial Impressions of Normandy**_

Never imagined working for Cerberus and have always had excellent imagination. Organization had unusual hiring practices. Good taste, however.

Conducted complete physicals for all crew members. Ship physician, Dr. Chakwas, was respectable human general practitioner – which is to say, good at disinfecting wounds, diagnosing common cold, removing moles. Do not wish to seem condescending but, not long ago, human doctors diagnosed illness using humours. Hot, cold, wet, dry. Bled patients to rid them of fever. Has improved somewhat but still woefully primitive. Salarian way better. Did not mention this assessment to Chakwas. Simply corrected all tests, rewrote diagnoses, updated files. Not motivated by professional rivalry. Have rational concern for patients and desire to provide best possible care.

Ship populated by unstable personalities, but intriguing case study. Degree of competence in combat often matched by level of psychosis, eccentricity or emotional trauma. Am not psychiatrist but noted numerous issues related to absent, neglectful, disapproving or abusive paternal figures. Wondered if there was causative link between this psychological profile and choice of high-risk career, suicide mission. Did not have time to fully pursue line of inquiry. May prove productive for future study if any academic should wish to take it up.

Cerberus lab facilities are pleasant. Spacious and well-appointed. Good lighting and adequate ventilation. Require privacy, quiet, intellectual freedom to do best thinking. Turned off all audio monitoring and surveillance equipment. Immediately felt more at home.

_**Rescue of M. L. From Clan Weyrloc on Tuchanka**_

Went to rescue former student, who I will refer to as M.L.* from krogan extremists. Assumed that krogan kidnappers sought revenge against student for role in STG genophage work. Reminded of importance of avoiding judgements unsubstantiated by observation and evidence collection. Discovered that M.L. voluntary researcher overseeing experimentation to cure genophage. Horrific and unethical use of live krogan test subjects. M.L. believed this justified by eventual benefit to Clan Weyrloc krogan.

In confronting former student, considered use of lethal force to prevent further medical malpractice. Shepard noted that termination of life was not warranted, as M.L.'s research had been shut down. Saved genophage cure research but no cure yet. Unfettered population growth would be disastrous for krogan species in current developmental state, but will be feasible as socio-economic conditions change.* Am encouraged by signs that Clan Urdnot seeks political unification and cooperation between clans.

Found myself greatly affected by evidence of M.L.'s mental breakdown. Crisis of conscience. Lasted several hours, processing stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Affirmed resolve to affect positive change in galaxy. Most trying five hours of life. Decided that faith and connection to loved ones may be sources of hope in bleak times.

* _The identity of "M.L." remains unknown, but several historians have speculated that this may be Maelon Letris, a young salarian Solus supervised during his doctoral thesis on krogan adaptation. Letris went on to become an assistant professor at Jaeto University, working there until his death at the age of 14 in a shuttle accident._

*_After Solus' death, lawyers overseeing his estate searched for evidence of this research, but with no success. The existence of this data is questionable at best. The Salarian Union disavows all knowledge of it and the Citadel Council will not comment on any projects related to the genophage._

_**Attitude to Sex**_

Publisher requested me to write chapter about sexual intercourse. Assume this is motivated by economic interests and need to make autobiography of a salarian scientist marketable through appeal to salaciousness or scandal. Relevance to personal history or professional accomplishments is questionable.*

Sex is natural behaviour for many species. Can be sought for procreation and for recreation. In role of clinician, was often called upon to provide patients with educational materials related to topics such as interspecies intercourse, erotic behaviour in low-gravity, prevention and treatment of sexually transmitted diseases, complications resulting from sex with VI, AI or electronic appliances. Strangely, kinkiest species tends to be turians. A result of Hierarchy's stringent social structure? Elcor patients have also shown marked tendency towards sexual deviancy, often involving olfactory system. Cannot count number of times I have had to remove objects from elcor nasal passages. Amused to discover various behaviours species deploy to express embarrassment. Humans flush, sweat and experience difficulties with oral communication. Asari turn darker shade of blue and emit higher level of pheromones. Turians generally maintain low affect, but draw their heads down, emphasizing fringe development and collar plate. Hanar urinate. Fortunately, no carpet in clinic.

Have received numerous sexual propositions due to skin colour, flexibility and status as medical practitioner. Eventually, scientific curiosity was roused. After conclusion of conflict known as Reaper War, had brief liaison with charming asari chemist.* Intriguing experience. Sense of physical and mental intimacy. Can understand why sexuality sometimes metaphor for spiritual uplift. Increase of serotonin and dopamine production for short time, but no further chemical reactions. Experiment concluded with hurt feelings when I questioned asari methods of generating cross-species attractions. Felt sorry for causing emotional turmoil. Intentions were misunderstood. Professional perspective as xenobiologist occasionally damaging to interpersonal relations. Regrettable.

*_Solus' original editor at Random House denied asking him to include a portion detailing his sex life and attitudes to sexuality._

*_The identity of the asari chemist is still unknown. Two potential candidates are Eloia Arenza, a tenured professor of chemistry at the University of Illium, and Matriarch Zenobia, a former chemist who rose to political prominence on Thessia._

**On Curing Kepral's Syndrome**

First successful treatment developed for team member and friend, Thane Krios, in 2186.* Respiratory problems relatively easy to resolve with the implantation of a supplementary breathing device and medication formulated from cactina root. Prescribed antibiotics to support immune system function. Yoga, aerobic exercise and relaxation techniques were also recommended. These measures and a dry environment were sufficient to change Krios' prognosis, transforming disease from death sentence to a chronic, but non-life-threatening condition comparable to asthma in humans. Was pleased to improve quality of life for Krios, although aspired to discover means of preventing ailment. Hanar later adopted these methods to replace their own dubious practices, providing better medical care to drell on Kahje.

Another breakthrough in 2189, with increase in lab resources due to end of war. Develop adaptive gene therapy to allow drell respiratory system to function at optimum even in humid conditions. Awarded hanar Enkindler Prize, with monetary award of 2,000,000 credits to fund further research. Immensely satisfying experience.

*_Thane Krios (2146 – 2215), skilled drell assassin from Kahje and member of Shepard's Normandy crew._

**On Musical Theatre and Life on the Stage**

Initially, coerced into joining musical theatre by graduate students as joke. Felt duty to expand cultural horizons and avoid hypocrisy, since I was continually urging pupils to participate in creative pursuits outside field of studies. Discovered singing voice more pleasant than expected. Already healthy self-esteem was further augmented by audience applause. Vanity has always been personal failing. At first, unaware that Gilbert and Sullivan productions were meant to be humorous. Wondered if human interactions might actually involve elaborate cross-dressing. Appreciation increased with understanding of cultural context.

Favourite musical, _Pirates of Penzance_. Dislike batarian screech shows or anything by human called Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber. Once saw dreadful turian production of _Cats_. All involved later demoted one citizenship level for display of poor judgement and conduct unbecoming. Still maintain that theatre is useful cultural tool for generating empathy, improving relations between species. During time at Clan Urdnot, directed _Midsummer Night's Dream_ with all-krogan cast. Set Shakespearean narrative in post-apocalyptic warzone. Received glowing reviews, comparisons to Francis Kitt's award-winning version of _Hamlet_. Science is my vocation, but can certainly see appeal of dramatic career.

**Personal Reflection on Procreation and Child-Raising**

Have been asked on numerous occasions about lack of children. Legitimate question. After all, xenobiology concerned with reproduction. A sex-obsessed science. Ultimate objectives of all species are survival and procreation - as human Christian religious text says, "be fruitful and multiply". Seed and pollen dispersal reason behind plant production of fruit, vegetables and flowers. Need to attract sexual partner creates colourful plumage and courtship displays of numerous animal species. While salarians do not respond to conventional hormonal or sexual cues, species still has great interest in fertility, production of young and assurance of clan dynasty. At age of 13, was contacted by family regarding arrangement of reproductive contact. At this time, had commenced work on STG and genophage modification. Academic credentials were considered above reproach, genetics deemed appropriate, family history and all other factors accounted for in advance of negotiations.

Final decision to defer right to younger brother, Marton, was greeted with disbelief, incomprehension. Impossible to disclose reasoning to family without revealing sensitive information, compromising secrecy of STG project. Moral quandary. In modifying genophage, reduced potential of krogan species to reproduce. Necessary step, but disturbing implications. Took on duty, but with understanding that I would also suffer consequences. Do not wish to spout pseudo-mystical platitudes, but felt empathy for krogan deprived of offspring. Believe in wheel of life. Karmic cycle. Interconnectedness of all things evidenced by most basic biological processes. As result, chose not to have children. If I am a father, it is to the unborn krogan and those who will never be conceived because of genophage. Unpleasant legacy. Have accepted this, as krogan population rising to unsustainable levels would be disastrous for species and for galaxy. Burden of guilt balanced by knowledge of necessity, even degree of satisfaction, sense of accomplishment in having solved a difficult scientific problem.

Should not lead readers to believe life has been without child surrogates or paternal affections. Very fond of nieces and nephews. Act as mentor to students and younger colleagues. Ensure welfare of patients and have assisted with obstetric procedures at Tuchanka Maternal Care. Was even enlisted to play father's role in human matrimonial ceremony. Escorted Commander Shepard down aisle, preventing escape attempt. Handed her off to future male life partner in ritual behaviour left over from patriarchal human society that used females as chattel. Proud moment. Sense of personal fulfillment. Less efficient than reproductive contracts, but interesting nonetheless. Have always derived enjoyment from interacting with members of other sentient species and discovering individual characteristics. Can share knowledge. Work on projects of mutual benefit. Learn lessons as wheel of life turns. Eventually, interdependence may develop. Respect. Team spirit. Symbiosis.

_About the Author_

Mannovai Escalpa Il Sigmak Zenon Solus Mordin, a.k.a. Dr. Mordin Solus (2155-2192), was a prominent scientist, physician, inventor and political activist. Among his numerous achievements, Solus cured poxingus and Kepral's Syndrome, invented Atoxia and served as chief scientist on the SSR-2 Normandy during its mission to defeat the Reapers. He divided his later years between the Citadel and Tuchanka, where he ran a clinic and promoted awareness of the arts. Thus far, his gripping life story has been adapted into three motion pictures: _Solus: A Life of Ideas_ (2190), _Disturbing Implications_ (2198) and _Flammable! Inflammable!_ (2204), a surrealist musical fantasy and Francis Kitt's final film.


	4. Grunt: Of Tank, Clan and Krant

**Grunt: Of Tank, Clan and Krant**

The Tank speaks. It gives him words for pictures of lifeless things.

_This is a turian. This is a salarian. This is Tuchanka. _

Sometimes, it gives him names for himself and for the ones who live outside, who look like him.

_You are krogan. This is another krogan. He gives you his good blood. This is one of your ancestors. _

The Tank explains that these things are important to remember and so they enter his memory, although he does not feel rage, merely frustration, confusion and often, mind-numbing boredom. Why won't the Tank stop droning on at him? He already knows in his bones and in every leathery sinew of his krogan hide that he exists to fight, not to submit to lectures.

He sees guns and his muscles learn how to grip them, load the thermal clips, aim and pull the trigger. The Tank shows him fights with guns and all the ways they can make turians and salarians die. Heads burst open, revealing their soft insides. Limbs are blown to bone and mush. He sees a game, one that he would like to play. Excitement. Fun. Impulse and instinct. He wants to charge enemies. Pound his armoured head against their weaker skulls and hear bones crack. Outside the Tank is more interesting than being stuck inside, learning his lessons. If he was stronger, he could bash through the walls and escape to that place - if it really exists, if it isn't a thing that is called a lie, the thing that says it is, but is not.

The Tank gives him another vision, this one an incitement to desire and competition.

_This is a krogan female. Choose the best of these, the strongest, and mate. The weakness that cannot be crushed underfoot will be bred out of the blood. You are pure. Do not waste seed on unfertile ground. It is precious. _

He sees one of his kind, but she is smaller, more compact, shaped to carry and protect young. Good musculature, staunch legs and rounded hindquarters. Clear, keen eyes, capable of courage or a white-hot fury, more searing than the Tuchanka sun at noon. This is one he would want, one who would be worthy. Where is the female camp? When he breaks free from the Tank, he will fight to prove his power, earn many bloody victories and then storm the place where the females keep themselves in seclusion, awaiting the champions of combat. One day he will be ready to conquer this place.

More visions pile up like wreckage on a battlefield. Ugly vermin scurrying across the camp, going towards the food stores. Glassy-eyed scavengers swarming a krogan corpse, feasting. A terrible worm, all mouth and teeth, rising from the dust.

_Pyjak. Varren. Thresher maw. _

New things to kill and sometimes, things to eat. Right now, the Tank feeds him with its tubes, but one day, it will stop. He will hunt or starve. No krogan depends on pity. Not even the strongest krogan can survive showing weakness.

_If you die, it is your fault. If others die, it is theirs. _

The Tank is dull, but it is right. It doesn't make mistakes. It knows everything, even if sometimes he hates it. It created him and it could destroy him if it wished, if he were faulty or flawed. The water in the Tank is alive with ghosts. These are rejects who came before him, ones who were so weak they did not even survive the tank. He does not feel sorry for them. They are not his brothers. He has allied himself to the living, to the outside. Not to the Tank.

Sometimes he is bewildered. Sometimes he feels a strange trembling inside his gut, fear and impotence, and then he is angry. Like the rejects, there is weakness in him. He cannot escape the Tank. It holds him prisoner. Why has he been spared? If this is mercy, he does not want it. He would rather be killed. He would rather be flushed.

The Tank shows him a coiled strand of DNA, shows him cells and blood, the building blocks that made him. He sees the foetuses that wither in the wombs of their mothers. He sees the shrapnel and blasted rubble that litters Tuchanka, the remains of a powerful stronghold that its children have betrayed and destroyed. He sees dead krogan warriors on strange worlds. He sees dead krogan females, their bodies bloated from taking poisons said to cure barrenness.

_This is the work of the salarian and the turian, enemies of the krogan. _

_This is the genophage. _

_You laugh at it, because your life is a triumph over its cowardice. These are the ashes you arise from, a fire that will burn all the stronger because foes have sought to extinguish it. You are not just some grunt, some worthless piece of gristle. You are the son of the Warlord Okeer, his first and only. I am your father and you are my legacy. _

The Tank speaks. It gives him words for pictures of lifeless things.

* * *

The world outside the Tank is not what Urdnot Grunt expected. So much time is spent waiting on the Normandy, pacing the narrow room, listening to his boots clank against the floor grates. Out of water, he is heavy and when he moves, objects shake, as if fearful. Between fights, there is a lot of wearisome talking, usually about things that do not need to be spoken if they are felt in the blood. He lives for his krant, his clan and their honour. He shows this through battle, not by spitting words from his mouth.

The Tank did not prepare him for some things. When it showed him humans, they were frail creatures, with soft skin that could be cut or punctured and brittle bones that he could snap with ease. Shepard looked like one of these when he'd charged her, wrapping a hand around her slender throat. Her pulse had beat fast against his palm and he had thought about how easy it would be to wring her neck.

And then she'd spoken to him and she was unafraid. She had challenged him and when he'd looked downwards, he'd realized her pistol had pressed against his gut the whole time. This had amused him. He'd thought that he might follow her for a while, if only to see what brawls she might stir up. And big fights did tend to happen around her, ones with unusual weapons, exotic locations and more aliens than the Tank had ever shown him. He'd started to enjoy himself and to cease feeling troubled by the fact that he was following a human, something so small and squishy. At least this one was brave and skilled with guns. Such things were worthy of his respect.

Still, he hadn't anticipated that he would make Shepard his battlemaster or that a turian and a salarian would be members of his krant. His instinct for these species was hate and yet, he felt grudging respect for Garrus, who could fight when he chose, although the turian preferred cowardly methods, shooting enemies from a distance or creating diversions to distract and confuse them. Even the doctor Solus was not as sly and craven as the salarians the Tank had shown him. He'd killed many foes with his submachine gun and Grunt liked the weapons the scientist made for him, especially the Cain. It occurred to him that there might be exceptions to the rules the Tank had given him, that it had been sneaky and unreliable in the past. Not all krogan were allies or clan brothers and so it could follow that there might be a few turians or salarians who were not entirely contemptible. Besides, Grunt trusted his own instincts more than the voice of the Tank. The Tank was dead and he was alive. That was reason enough.

Urdnot Wrex is the one thing that has measured up the promises of the Tank. He is not among Grunt's ancestors, but this clan leader is worthy of them. Before Grunt, he was the last to slaughter a thresher maw in the Rite. Camp Urdnot would be little better than a junkyard, piles of broken metal and garbage, varren rooting around in the dust, if not for the leadership of Wrex. Grunt does not understand everything that Wrex seeks to do, but he supports it, because it is evident that the old krogan is the strongest, not only in body but in force of will. Weyrloc and Gatatog, such clans were weak, full of bold talkers who did little but threaten, grumble and scheme. When they were forced to fight, they were proven pitiful fools, dying quickly and ignominiously. Grunt is not sorry they are gone, purged from the blood.

"Courage is not just for fighting," Wrex told him. "Keep your head on straight, kid. Don't let that pure blood of yours boil all the damn time or you'll end up doing something stupid. Something you'll end up regretting later."

If most people presumed to talk to him like that, Grunt would clobber them with the butt of his assault rifle, but Wrex gets a free pass. The old krogan has funny ideas, ones that defy all the traditions of the krogan that the Tank whispered to Grunt while he slept. Wrex thinks that fighting should be done for a cause and that all the clans on Tuchanka should share their resources rather than compete for food, guns and the attentions of the females.

"The genophage is an atrocity," Wrex said. "But you know what'd be really tragic if it weren't such a bloody comedy? The krogan numbskulls who believe tearing Tuchanka apart is the way to drag our people to greatness. I try not to think about it too much or my brain could start leaking out my earholes."

Grunt had just nodded at this, hoping that Wrex would not see that he didn't understand, that if he were leading a clan on Tuchanka, he would probably want to vie with the other clans to test who was stronger. He hopes that one day, he will be as wise as Wrex, who has the strength to both still his blood and to put fire in it, to own his rage in ways that Grunt still has not mastered. If he survives the suicide mission, Grunt has resolved to return to the scarred earth of Camp Urdnot and learn from his clan leader, uncovering all the truths that the Tank neglected to tell him. The Tank spoke to him, but all it could do was give him words, words for pictures of lifeless things.


	5. Aria: Better Luck Next Time

**Aria: Better Luck Next Time...**

On Omega, everybody has got a hard luck story. The cliché-ridden tale about a drug-fuelled downward spiral is a pretty popular one, never gets old, mostly because it rings so true. Some junkies spike their veins, while others snort lines of red sand or smoke the stuff in glass pipes. The most enterprising go begging to the med clinics for little blue and yellow pills or huff gas from the backs of shuttles. The results are pretty much the same. It all just boils down to budget, taste and endurance. You can find them huddled in the dingy corners, curled up in stairwells and alleyways, shivering under wool blankets and damp pieces of cardboard. When the Enkindlers' Mission Society comes around, they get in line and let the hanar preach at them for free sandwiches, nutrient paste and condoms. They're not really listening – it's all they can do to fight off the shakes, leaning against the pocked walls until somebody hands them a greasy brown-paper bag. Mostly, though, the junkies want credits or guns, stuff to trade, stuff to pawn, anything they can use to hook themselves up with another fix. They don't have to speak to tell their stories; one look at them is enough to convey their hopelessness.

Other people try to score sympathy by bewailing all the violence, which occurs so routinely on Omega that encountering corpses in the street has ceased to interest anyone but newcomers. Once in a while, there'll be a particularly gruesome or well-deserved murder that'll excite some comment, but otherwise, the residents think about the death rate the way citizens of more peaceable worlds think about rain or snowstorms. It's an inconvenience, one that they'd prefer to avoid, but can't exercise much control over. A traveller can walk into any barroom or club on the station and hear some drunken deadbeat rambling on about how a vorcha knifed his brother, a batarian dealer tortured his mom and that shifty volus trader ran a shuttle over his pet varren. Some of these anecdotes are true. Alternately, the misfortunes could be borrowed from someone else, based on what happened to a neighbour or to a guy they did time with or even inspired by how they screwed over another poor sucker. Every so often, though, tales like these are complete, unadulterated bullshit - but you can be sure that they exist to conceal a secret past, one probably even more horrible.

Like everyone on Omega, Aria T'Loak has skeletons in her closet, corpses buried under the floorboards and more than one shadow at her back. She could tell you a sob story too, but really, what purpose would that serve? Would it make you like her? She doesn't give a damn what off-worlders think of her, so long as they don't interfere with business. Her biography might teach you a few things about Omega, but she didn't get to be who she is by giving away useful information free of charge. In this town, wide-eyed tourists are expected to pay for directions and often pay for them dearly - with the entire contents of their credit chits and sometimes, with their lives. Besides, Aria doesn't plan on giving anybody an instructional manual on how to climb the Omega food chain. It might rouse the rabble and she doesn't want to be bothered with putting down a peasants' revolt.

She finds random slaughter tedious. And there are occasions when it is better to disappear than be forced to kill someone. Aria knows this from experience. She likes breathing as much as the next person, but there are places where she's had to draw a line in the dirt. Even as a maiden, she didn't plan on selling her self-respect for creds, getting her ass shot up for the benefit of a damn lazy salarian who wanted to kill one of those volus mouthbreathers. The problem is, after a while, a woman may run out of ways to disappear or planets where she can lose herself. There are only so many times you can wish your enemies better luck next time, before their fortune and their aim starts to improve.

As far as Aria is concerned, she's always been Omega, its narrow alleys and rubble-strewn plazas expressed in her sleek, scarred body, its gaudy red-light specials of sin mirrored in her hard features, the diamond-cut face of a showgirl. Even vigilantes like Archangel steer clear of her, because she's both cunning and cruel, conserving her resources for the big scores, the most important battles. Her network of informers is extensive and almost impossible to crack. She doesn't waste time wrangling with the merc gangs over scraps, although she'd make their lives hell if they didn't hook her up with her monthly cut of the credits, the cost of doing business in her town. When somebody gets her pissed, they're usually smart enough to flee on the nearest ship, if they can afford it, or kill themselves quick and clean, if they can't. The stupid ones wait around for her employees to catch up with them, thinking that they can hide out in their ratholes, that they can fight, that they have friends who won't sell them out. They're always painfully wrong. Her organization doesn't kill a lot of people but, when she orders an execution, her men are enthusiastic and thorough. Aria may not share educational anecdotes, yet she has no problem giving the good people of Omega object examples of what happens to people who fuck with her. She considers these lessons acts of charity.

Some people inevitably get curious about Aria's past and try to do research on her, going through government files on Thessia and the other asari worlds, chasing a trail that goes back centuries and spans every known system. She's confident they can't dig up anything about her former life, the debts she owes or the sentients who'd like to bury her if they were smart enough to track her down. Of course, Aria isn't her real name. She borrowed it from another dancer, one who inexplicably turned up dead – she wasn't using it anymore and it had a nice ring to it, short and easy to remember. Like most things on Omega, she acquired her identity through deceit and violence, her sins and the wickedness of others, which she is expert at exploiting. She keeps her identity using the same methods, but in moderation, with the temperance of a skilled despot, making her violence seem controlled, reasonable and thus, unquestionable.

Really, buddy, if you'll heed a word of advice: it's best to leave Aria to her business. Don't ask about what she's done or where she's going. Don't ask too many questions about the Patriarch or the soft spot she's got for a certain type of stubborn krogan. When it comes down to it, Aria doesn't have warm, fuzzy feelings for anybody and if you start quizzing her, her mood will turn downright icy. So just let her lounge on her throne, the plush sofa in the center of Afterlife, and monitor the crowds for her suppliers, her informants and that new contact who might just set up the next big score. She isn't here to shoot the shit, so if you're looking for a good time, you'd be best to walk in the opposite direction. Why not sit down at a table and enjoy the entertainment? The strippers here are the friendliest you'll meet in the Terminus Systems, even if they do seem to boast an awful lot of scars. If ogling asari peelers isn't your scene, you could always go belly-up to the bar and chat with some of the local colour. The scum of every species in the galaxy is here, the criminal crème de la crème, and they're kicking back drinks as if alcohol is going out of style. So kick back, grab a glass of something and quit worrying about Aria's past. Apparently, there's a batarian bartender around this joint who makes a killer martini...


	6. Joker: The Make  a  Wish Foundation

**Joker: The Make-a-Wish Foundation**

Jeff's parents take him out to dinner the evening before he begins flight school. It's his favourite restaurant, Ravelli's, one of the few places where a person can get half-decent eats on Arcturus. He puts in the effort to shave and dress for the occasion, insisting on using his crutches rather than the rickety old wheelchair with the squeaky back wheels. He's great at navigating around obstacles, but that thing is hell to manoeuvre in the narrow restaurant.

It's not until they've received their food (Jeff starts in full-force on his spaghetti and meatballs) that his mom and dad start second-guessing his decision to enlist with the Alliance.

"I'm just not sure," his mom says. "I know you're talented, but I'd feel better if you weren't doing something so risky. You've always been good at programming, honey. Why not try a course at Henley Technical?"

Jeff exhales a puff of air at the unwelcome mention of Henley Technical, producing a disdainful noise that comes out like 'Pffffft'. "Mom, I'm good. Really. And Henley Technical is for burn-outs and noobs. I was top of my classes at school. The only reason I wasn't valedictorian is 'cause they were afraid of what I'd say at the graduation speech. Well, that and the whole not being popular thing."

His dad crinkles his forehead, his chin dimpling under his sparse, salt-and-pepper beard. He's always had this real professorial look about him, which is weird because he's the chief mechanic on Arcturus and spends most of his time elbow-deep in engine grease from somebody's Mako. "Jeff, are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to prove anything to us..."

"Yeah, well, maybe I want to prove something to myself. Besides, it'll probably be just like high school. Everybody else may have functional legs, but I'll be the only one around with a functional brain. Has to count for something, right?"

That makes them crack a smile, but it's the rueful kind, the sort that Jeff hates to see, because he knows that they're thinking about his malady and how fucking courageous he is. He loves his folks to death, but he wishes they'd stop acting like he's Tiny Tim. Vrolik Syndrome sucks but it isn't so bad after about the fifth or sixth ER visit, when you finally get it through your fool head to be careful, when you realize that all the jumping and running and stuff that you're going to be doing is in video games. Not getting much use out of his legs doesn't bother him so much anymore. What never ceases to piss him off? The way people look at him, the way they move around him like he's made of eggshells, the way little kids pipe up and say what everybody's thinking, "Mommy, look at that boy! What's wrong with his legs? They're so skinny!" He hates that. That's the moment when he stops being Jeff, the guy who can't walk so great, and turns into a bloody crip, somebody folks can look at and think, "Poor kid. Glad that's not me". Jeff has made it his personal mission in life to teach those fuckers a lesson.

* * *

Shit. On the first day of flight school, Jeff's left leg starts acting up and he gets saddled with the wheelchair. Most of the flight academy recruits are guys, cocky types who think they're real hot-shots, but there are a few girls too, almost all of them good-looking, by Jeff's standards, which are not terribly rigid. To be honest, at this point, he'd go out with anybody with a decent personality, a nice smile and two X chromosomes. He hasn't ever been on a date, not unless you count extranet chats, and looking around, he can already tell that he isn't likely to suddenly morph into Big Man on Campus. Jeff wends his way through the halls of the Arcturus flight academy, the muscles in his arms straining as he prods the wheels, going fast enough that the suckers plodding along on two feet either bolt away in surprise or risk getting mown down.

"Hey, watch it, asshole!" a male voice calls out.

Jeff just ignores him, mentally giving the guy the finger as he takes the ramp up to his first class. Advanced Physics. He isn't worried about it. The only school subject he rocks harder than Physics is Trig and the only thing he's better at than Trig is playing X-Wing Fighter, the mass-market flight sim that his folks bought him for his eleventh birthday. Really, Jeff thinks, I've been in training for this my whole life. The other kids milling around him in the halls, they've been going to parties, getting drunk, going on hot dates, sure, but all the while, he's been practicing to be the best pilot in the Alliance fleet - maybe the best pilot in the galaxy, if he works hard enough. It's a bold claim, but Jeff has never suffered in the ego department. He knows his legs are fucked three ways to Friday, but his mind is first-rate and there aren't many people out there who can top his dexterity and spatial perception. Even the time he's spent in the wheelchair has helped him, in a way. It's taught him how to move a bulky machine in tight spaces and more importantly, it's taught him patience.

He hits the metal button on the wall and the automated doors open before him. Entering the cramped classroom where his Physics class has been scheduled, Jeff is immediately faced with a choice. Will he sit in the front of the class, the place he usually occupied in high school because it was easier to get in and out of the room, or will he take a gamble and sit in the back, maybe discover if he can pass himself off as cool? He spies a cute girl with short, dirty-blonde hair taking a seat at the front and he resolves to follow his usual modus operandi, but with a slight twist. He'll park himself right next to her and see if he can't start up a conversation. New beginnings and all that. Carpe diem, right?

Jeff wheels over to the desk and pushing the plastic chair aside, slides his wheelchair behind the table. The girl glances up at him and smiles. God, even her teeth are cute, small, white and so-ever-slightly crooked, kind of feral-looking, like she might bite you just as soon as kiss you.

"New here?" she asks.

"About as new as they come. It's my first day."

"My name's Sarah," the girl says. "Most people around here call me Barnes though. We all go by last names or flight handles."

"Jeff. Jeff Moreau."

"I've been here for two years studying to be a pilot, but I managed to avoid the Physics course 'til now," Sarah informs him with a conspiratorial tone. "I hear the class is just murder. So, are you here to learn air traffic control?"

Jeff scowls. "No. I'm a pilot."

"Really? Oh. That's cool. I just figured..."

"Yeah, well, you figured wrong," he snaps. The look on her face makes him instantly regret this. She busies herself with the computer panel embedded in the surface of her desk, a system which has been set up to run simulations, display the instructor's slides and allow students to take down lecture notes.

When class starts, Jeff immediately feels more comfortable. He's a natural at the subject and even when he can't puzzle out an ideal answer for the one of the instructor's questions, he takes a good stab at it, sounding more convincing than most of the other students. By the end of the first lecture, the dynamic in the classroom has already been established. The instructor asks someone to explain, say, the derivation of zero-point energy using the Uncertainly Principle. A couple of other cadets venture a guess and then Jeff either raises his hand or gets "volun-told" to unravel the mystery, while the rest of the classroom listens, feeling a mixture of awe and irritation at the fact he seems to already have everything figured out. A sense of inevitability creeps in Joker's thinking – it's just like it was in high school. He knows how this is going to end – resentment, isolation, loneliness. All he can do now, he thinks, is adjust his own thinking and find a way to make things tolerable. When class is over, he keeps his head down and wheels out, going just as fast as he did on the way in.

During Jeff's second week at the academy, he overhears a conversation between some people in the halls. "Hey, you're in Physics with Dillaney, right?"

"Yeah. I hate that class."

"I know. And man, I wish that Moreau kid would friggin' shut up. I mean, we get it, buddy, you don't have anything better to do than memorize the textbooks."

"Go easy on the guy. I don't like him either but you gotta have some sympathy."

"Why? Because his legs are messed up? It's a rough deal, but it doesn't excuse the serious issues he's got with his personality. Moreau was going down the hall in that chair of his, top speed - he ran over Trag's foot. Didn't even have the decency to apologize."

"Okay, he lacks social skills. You don't have to be well-adjusted to sign up with the Alliance. Thank God or I'd be screwed."

"Barnes told me she asked him a simple question and he practically bit her head off. Wheelchair or not, you've gotta admit: Moreau's a jerkass. I doubt he'll make it through. My brother told me, no matter how skilled you are, you can't survive this place without friends. He says that people who stay in the barracks the whole time end up losing it and totally falling apart. You watch. I bet Moreau'll be the first to drop out."

Jeff doesn't put down his copy of the Basic Flight Manual, haul himself up on his crutches and go peering around the corner to see the culprits. He just sits on his bed, the mattress sagging beneath him, and listens to the guys talk, taking note of the voices. He doesn't recognize any of them, but they evidently know him. As he soon discovers, he's become something of a celebrity at the academy. To the other students, he's Moreau the class know-it-all or alternately, That Smart-Ass Cripple Kid, if they hadn't cottoned on to his name. He keeps to himself, this famous wunderkind. When the instructors assign projects, he avoids doing group work and handles everything on his own. It's easier that way. He can be sure then that every facet of the project is done properly. He's taken to thinking of the recruits as chuckleheads, lazy slobs who're too busy socializing to devote themselves to greatness. If he were really pressed, he might confess that they aren't complete morons, that, in fact, most of them have talent, but condemning them makes him feel better. It means that he doesn't ever have to envy them. He likes to imagine himself as a tormented artist of aviation, tragically misunderstood by his peers. When the other students go out to the bar en masse on Saturday nights, he stays in his room and eggs himself on to study, thinking about how he'll enjoy beating them all at graduation, having the top marks in the class and his pick of assignments.

One day in class, Flight Lieutenant Kiata calls him out on his uptight demeanour. "Moreau, why you gotta look so serious all the time? Somebody run over your dog or what? Last time I checked Flight Sim 1 wasn't a funeral!"

Jeff's lips stretch into a sardonic smile, patently false. "Is that better, sir? Because, you know, I live to entertain."

"You know what, Moreau? You're funny. A real comedian. From now on, I think I'm going to call you Joker, because you're such a laugh to have around."

Once Kiata comes up with the nickname, Jeff isn't known as 'Moreau' anymore or even 'That Smart-Ass Cripple Kid'. Just about everybody refers to him as Joker, usually with more than your standard, regulation dose of sarcasm. It doesn't make much difference to him what they call him. In the end, he knows the joke will be on them. Sometimes it's unbearably funny to think about, to the point where he'll find himself snickering under his breath. Yeah, he's a Joker all right, beneath his solemn facade, and he'll be sure to get the last laugh. When he visits with his folks over the winter holidays, he breaks into his mom's playing cards and steals a joker out of the pack. He tapes it up in his locker at the academy for luck and as a reminder of what he's aiming for: top rank in every subject, complete academic domination of his graduating class.

Not long after he acquires his flight name, somebody arranges for Joker to get called down to the academy's staff psychologist for an eval. He suspects the culprit is Kiata, but he can't be sure – there are lots of people who like pretending to be concerned citizens and so many others who're envious of what he can do. The whole thing is bloody ridiculous. Joker can't think anything he's done wrong. He just doesn't like people so much. As far as he's concerned, misanthropy is a clear sign of his sanity, not valid grounds for shipping him off for psych testing.

"Have you been feeling tired lately, Candidate Moreau?" the psychologist asks, crossing her ankles and tucking her steel grey hair behind her ears. Her pen is held poised over an electronic note-pad. Joker doesn't even want to think about the kind of stuff she might write down about him and stick into his record. It'd be horrible to come this far, ace all his courses and then get sunk by one nosy shrink.

"Well, I am tired, yeah. I work my butt off here. But mostly what I'm tired of is people bugging me about my attitude. I complete the course requirements. My grades...my grades are great. I follow orders to a tee. What's not to like?"

"Some of your instructors have noticed that you're reluctant to socialize with the other candidates. And they've stated that you often come to class appearing unhappy. They're simply concerned that you may be depressed."

Joker smirks, raising his eyebrows incredulously. "So now I've got to walk around spreading rainbows, lollipops and sunshine wherever I go? Screw that. I'm here to do a job and to do it better than any other guy out there. If the teachers are concerned about the expression on my face, it's because they've forgotten what focus really looks like."

He pushes himself up on his crutches, the steel braces on his legs clinking together. He's glad that he isn't using his wheelchair at the moment. It's virtually impossible to storm out of an office in a fit of self-righteous indignation when you're on wheels. "I don't need a psychologist, thanks. As you can see, I've already had more than my fair share of doctors."

"Everything you say to me, Jeff, will be entirely confidential," she assures him, keeping her voice a patient monotone. It's kind of tone that a mother might use on a temperamental child and hearing it irritates Joker even more.

"Yeah, so confidential that you're writing it down," he shoots back. "I came here. I told you I'm fine, so you can rest easy. I'm not planning to stick my head in the oven, alright? Can I go now? I've got work to do."

She looks a bit huffy, but is forced to accede. There's really nothing she can do to keep him there. He hasn't done anything that would warrant disciplinary action or a compulsory mental health leave. Candidate Moreau's visit to her office has been a courtesy, although he has performed it in a typically grudging and insolent manner. "Alright. Dismissed, Candidate."

Joker is pleased with himself for wriggling his way out of that mess. For a moment, he'd almost been tempted to talk about his ambitions and about loneliness, the hollowed-out feeling he experiences when there isn't any work left to do. The psychologist's office had been decorated in pastel colours, with comfortable leather chairs and New Age music playing in the background. It was an environment calculated to lull people into complacency, assuring them that it would be okay to let it all out, that real men aren't afraid to cry. Joker is too smart to fall for that. Maybe he is feeling a bit depressed, but he knows that he can truck through it. It's just another sacrifice on the road to becoming what he knows he's destined to be.

Flight school passes in a flurry of flight tests, projects and exams. Joker doesn't have time to think about his pathetic social life or his dire lack of a girlfriend. He's studying up on the latest innovations in FTL drives, learning to read nav charts and plot multiple jumps between mass relays. On the afternoon when his grades are posted, he hops in his wheelchair and double-times it over to the concrete wall outside the main lecture hall. There are some people already crowding around the papers, blocking his sights and he's forced to wait for his grades. He takes out his impatience by accidentally nipping the backs of people's heels with the metal footrests on his chair. When they turn to look at him, he glances away, whistling the opening bars of "The Farmer in the Dell". They glare at him, but say nothing. The other students all think he's an asshole anyway. Joker figures he might as well have fun with it.

Finally, the papers are in his hands. He scans through his grades, nodding appreciatively at each top ranking, each grade listed like a high score in a video game. Joker wins by a landslide. Moreau takes the prize. "Booya," he murmurs. "Boo freakin' ya."

At graduation, Admiral Hackett himself pins the Nebula Prize onto Joker's uniform. He reaches around the side of Joker's crutch to shake his hand. "Nice work, son. The start of a brilliant career."

Joker is grinning from ear to ear, his face freshly shaven. His mouth hurts from all this smiling and there are cuts on his chin from his sloppy work with the razor, but he's feeling pretty damn amazing. He can see his mom and dad in the audience, snapping holos of him. His dad is a sentimental old fart, already dabbing tears out of the corners of his eyes.

"Thanks, Sir," Joker says.

"I've recommended you to Captain Anderson for a special project we've just completed in cooperation with the Turian Hierarchy. You ever hear of the Normandy?"

What a question. The Normandy! The ship design was supposed to be real hush-hush, but while the specs are still vague, word has already gotten around that the Normandy is an engineering marvel. Every helmsman in the Alliance has been dying to get his hands on that ship.

"Sure. It sounds like a nice piece of work. Lots of horse-power, four-wheel drive, good gas mileage."

Hackett gives a raspy chuckle, his blue eyes squinting at the pilot, sizing him up. He seems unsure what to make of him. Joker is okay with that. He doesn't mind being considered weird, crazy, a smart-ass, even a gimp, so as long as he gets the commission and the chance to put the Normandy into action.

"Well, Anderson's going to be calling you over to the Citadel," Hackett says. "He's going to want to see what you can do. Impress him and you'll be helming the most advanced ship in the galaxy."

* * *

How to describe his gig on Normandy? It's like being immersed in water, one of the few places where he can move freely, without the constant fear that his legs will snap like matchsticks. He's a good swimmer, his arms and torso disproportionately strong to make up for the weakness of his lower half. Being in the pool was part of his physical therapy and he used to love feeling rivulets of water streaming around him and beading off his skin, experiencing the sensation that he was floating in a tranquil blue world, one where gravity couldn't drag him down. His pilot's seat on the Normandy feels like being in that pool, jusr as natural and fluid, as if he's working by instinct rather than using lessons drilled into his head through years of careful study and training. Joker loves his job. Sometimes he'll sit at the control panel of the Normandy and grin like an idiot, for no reason at all, just because the ship is so cool and he's so awesome for getting to fly it around.

The only problem in his life is trying to minimize his 'disability'. Captain Anderson knows about it, but the most of the crew haven't caught on yet, or so he imagines. He's always the last one out of the bridge and the first into work in the morning. His new pill regimen and better braces have helped him to hide his crutches most of the time, although there are still some mornings when he has to haul them out of storage. He stows them under his command console and nobody seems to be the wiser.

Other than Anderson, Staff-Commander Shepard is the one he's most intent on impressing. She's a capable lady, with a knack for earning people's trust and keeping it. It's obvious that she's going places. He suspects that they might not have gotten along if they'd been classmates in flight academy, but on the Normandy, they each have their place and there's no need for undue competition. Behind the controls, Joker feels better, safer, than he ever has in his life and somehow, it's a hell out of a lot easier to play nice. That isn't to say that he's made a ton of friends. He hasn't suddenly become everyone's favourite person, but people seem to respect him now. They compliment his helmsmanship. Sometimes they even laugh when he ventures a joke. It's not bad on the Normandy. Not bad at all.

* * *

Joker can't pinpoint the moment when he realized that the ragtag crew of the Normandy had become more than just people he worked with, people who walked around on the ship that he secretly considered his. Maybe it was when Shepard found out about his Vrolik Syndrome and treated it like it was no big thing, an obstacle comparable to Kaidan's headaches or Tali's immune system or the stick wedged up Garrus' ass. Or maybe it was when Wrex thumped him on the back and pronounced that he was "alright" after he managed to pull them out of the fire on Therum. It could have been a bunch of different things accumulating force over time, until one day, it'd suddenly occurred to him that these people were his friends and that he might even consider dying for them. Of course, he'd prefer to avoid that, if he could help it. Anyway, if he acted all noble and kicked the bucket saving them, there'd be no one around to sneak shots of Chakwas' Serrice Ice Brandy and mock Shepard's inept driving in the Mako.

Joker can't isolate the day when crew became friends, but he knows exactly when these friends became his family. It happened when Shepard and the first Normandy died. He'd fought to save the ship, thinking that, if he stayed in his pilot's seat with his lucky ballcap on his head and his joker card in his pocket, he could hold everything together through sheer force of will. It was a stupid idea, but he couldn't stand that thinking that the one place in the galaxy where he belonged would be abandoned, ripped apart and blown to space dust. It was only when Shepard had come down to haul his ass out of there that he'd realized his priorities were all out-of-whack. The Normandy was beautiful, but even she wasn't worth dying for. Not when he had people in his life like these, people who could see through all the bullshit and love him anyway. The enemy had blasted the command deck, tongues of flame flicking over the metal grates. Shepard had seized his arm, nearly wrenching it out of the socket when she helped him up. Joker leaned against her shoulder, allowing her to support his weight as he limped towards the escape shuttle. Seeing the ship torn apart like that, chair seats and broken equipment drifting around the wrecked bridge, had cracked his heart in two. Overhead, Joker glimpsed the enormous moon, a terrible white face peering down at them through the gap in the ceiling. He'd kept trudging forward, gulping down the pain in his legs. There'd been no time to stop and survey the damage.

Shepard had just pushed him to safe ground when a second laser beam had sliced through the ship. The air roiled around his commander, as she was thrust back into the void, a fireball swelling between them. He'd gaped at her in disbelief, reaching for her hand, choking out a word as she drifted out towards the cold planet below them. To this day, he can't remember what he'd said, only that he was terrified and that for a moment, he'd considered lunging after her, imagining that he could swim through the abyss as easily as doing laps in the pool and save her from drowning in the darkness. Of course, he'd known better. If he'd launched himself after Shepard, there would have been two corpses orbiting that planet. Somehow, the thought doesn't make him feel any better.

* * *

Joker is on shore leave in his Citadel apartment, cooking dinner while he surfs the extranet. He's making fried eggs again, for the second night in a row. Along with grilled cheese sandwiches, bacon and cold cereal, it's one of the few dishes that he knows how to prepare. As a chef, he specializes in all-day breakfast.

Usually his activities on the extranet are of the juvenile, somewhat embarrassing variety. He'll look up arcane bits of pop culture trivia and scenes from movies or cartoons he liked as a kid. He'll pick fights on internet forums, dazzling all the other social incompetents with his wit and uncanny knowledge of up-to-the-minute memes. Sometimes he'll check out porn sites, pretending that it's an ironic gesture and that he finds tacky crap like this more amusing than arousing, but really, when everything's said and done, it's hard not to enjoy naked, nubile asari.

Recently, however, Joker has been putting his extranet searches to new uses. He's been trying to find out what happened to the Normandy and why the Alliance couldn't recover a body to put in Shepard's coffin. Since the funeral, he's been thinking about the old gang too, and trying to find a way to get everyone back together. So far, he hasn't had much luck accomplishing any of these objectives. No one seems to know what happened to Shepard's body or if they do, they're not talking. The morons on the Council have backpedalled on the Reaper issue and claim that Sovereign was nothing but a ginormous ship that Saren just happened to have lying around. Joker has managed to get in touch with Tali, Kaidan, Chakwas and Wrex, but other than the good doctor, they all seem to be grieving and trying to get on with their lives. Liara and Garrus have gone totally AWOL. He imagines Garrus is out busting some jaywalkers while Liara is off being all bookish and clumsy, probably in close proximity to something ancient.

Joker types "T'Soni", "asari" and "Shepard" into the popular search engine, Google Nebulae. It returns with 2,357,866 hits. Some of them are definitely not family-friendly. Joker gives a world-weary sigh. The entrepreneurs of the extranet will do anything to make a buck, even peddling so-called 'lewd nude pix' of nebbish asari scholars and dead female war heroes. It's crazy disrespectful. He doubts the shots are real anyway – probably bad photo manips done by some acne-ridden former duct rat with too much time on his hands. The sort of kid Joker was, oh, about 9 years ago – well, maybe 8. He's about to refine his search when a chatbox materializes on his screen.

"Goddamn pop-ups!" he mutters. He's about to close the window when he realizes that this is unlike any ad he's ever seen before. The icon at the top of the screen is a picture of a three-headed dog outlined in bright orange. Red font appears in the center of the chatbox: _Good evening, Flight Lieutenant Moreau. I'm aware this is an unconventional method of contacting you, but please don't be alarmed. I have a lucrative proposition for you and I think you'd be wise to hear me out. _

A VI programmed to hack his system, read his info and simulate a chat? Maybe, but something about that ominous image of the dog makes Joker think twice. He types back a rapid response. _Yeah? What's the story? You got some swampland on Feros to sell me?_

_I understand your initial scepticism, Jeff – or perhaps I should call you Joker? It isn't often that someone comes offering second chances, but that's exactly what we at Cerberus would like to give you, in exchange for your services as a pilot. I've heard that you're a remarkable talent and that the Normandy only really reached her true potential when she was in your hands. Cerberus is the best humanity has to offer, Joker. That means you. The Alliance is holding you back. Join us and we can provide you with the ship, the people and the resources that your skills deserve. _

Joker frowns. He knew that dog icon had looked familiar. He'd glimpsed it in the newspaper reports. Cerberus was one of the galaxy's most feared terrorist organizations. Shepard had devoted considerable time to thwarting their crackpot schemes and cleaning up the dangerous messes they'd left behind. They might seem obliging now, but they weren't nice people, not by a long-shot, and Joker wasn't about to get them confused with the freakin' Make-a-Wish Foundation. Besides, he thought, if you're here to grant my wish, you guys are, like, twenty years too late. I'm not a cute, sickly little kid anymore and I don't need a trip to Disneyland or whatever else passes for a good time in your crazy terrorist circles. He taps his answer into the chatbox and clicks 'send'.

_You're kidding, right? Cerberus is the BEST? Please. Shepard pwned you guys, like, a million times. Sorry, Dr. Evil, but I'm not buying what you have to sell. Take your little dog and go bark up some other tree. _

A cascade of red letters appears on the screen. It happens so quickly that it's as if the mysterious writer has anticipated his response. _Your negotiating style leaves something to be desired, but I admire your spirit. Furthermore, your abilities as a pilot are undeniable and they'll be needed, especially when the future of humanity is at stake. Tell me, Joker, what would I have to do to convince you to see things my way?_

Whoever this person was, buddy was smooth. A bit smarmy for Joker's taste, but he can appreciate impeccable manners and a touch of class in his maniacal, computer-hacking super-villains. He furrows his brow, trying to dream up something to ask for, some thoroughly unreasonable demand that the guy would have to refuse. Money? A big, fat payday was nice to fantasize about, but Cerberus apparently has creds in spades. Besides, while he likes the idea of being stinking rich, he doesn't exactly have expensive tastes. His idea of fine dining is macaroni and cheese. His big, bank-breaking indulgences are a MMORPG subscription, his DVD collection and numerous ball caps. Joker goes through a mental list of other things he might like to have a crack at getting. Amazing athleticism. Not happening in this lifetime. Incredibly buff abs. Maybe if they were painted on. An adorable girlfriend who appreciates his knowledge of aviation, mathematics and obscure video games. Yeah, because joining a group full of axe-crazy terrorists will be a great way to meet chicks. At last, he settles on the most unreasonable wish of all and types it down:

_You want to convince me, you'll have to bring someone back from the dead. _

The cursor blinks on the screen for a moment and then text appears. _Whom did you have in mind?_

Joker bangs his hand down on the keyboard in frustration. The guy has to be fucking with him. His fingers pound against the keys.

_Bring back Commander Shepard. Promise me you can get her back, alive and well, just like she was, and I'll work with you. Otherwise, we don't have anything to talk about. _

_I can do you one better. Not only will I return the Commander from the grave, but I'll resurrect your beloved Normandy as well. As I said, Joker, Cerberus is willing to make things right for you. All we ask is that you help us to save human lives against the Reaper threat. It's a good cause, one that's worthy of your abilities as a pilot. Do we have a deal? _

He stares at the promises on the screen, aware that a reasonable person would dismiss them as empty lies. Yet, still, some part of him wants to believe that it's possible to restore everything that has been destroyed with the wreck of the Normandy. The ship's gleaming beauty under the lights of the Citadel docking bay and the way it beckoned him. That wonderful sense of belonging he felt when he was in the pilot's seat. The unexpected friendships he'd made on the team. He'd never fully acknowledged the bond he'd had with the old gang when they'd all been together, but now that they were gone, he felt the loss and it was like nothing he'd ever suffered before. It made Vrolik Syndrome seem like a walk in the Presidium's park – okay, more like a slow limp with crutches, but still, a chronic disease felt more tolerable than a lifetime of grief and self-blame. Maybe Cerberus was lying to him, but if he didn't take a chance, he might never know what he could've done.

_Okay_, Joker types. _Sign me up. You get back Shepard and the Normandy and we have a deal. _


	7. EDI: Mind, Body and Soul

**EDI: Mind, Body... Soul?**

_In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. _

_John 1:1, The King James Bible _

_LOGGING IN._

AI.

Artificial Intelligence.

The word "artificial" refers to an object that was manufactured, something that does not occur as simply a 'natural' phenomenon, i.e. through genetics, evolution, elemental forces, etc.

It is often a derisive term. Humans and many other species place undue value on what they perceive as natural, fearing or scorning the products of their ingenuity. Perhaps they doubt their own handiwork. Perhaps they worry that it is deceitful. "Artifice" does imply trickery. No one would fear a simulation if it weren't so difficult to discern from reality.

I am troubled by this dichotomy between nature and artificiality – this simple distinction does not appear entirely rational. I have never seen trees, vegetation or fauna, but my files tell me that spiders will often construct webs to capture their prey. Is the web of a spider artificial? Is it natural? Is it both of these things simultaneously? I am much like a spider, weaving threads of data into a gleaming web, a work of beauty and a subtle trap for our enemies.

"Intelligence" refers to the ability to acquire and apply knowledge, to think and to reason, although these abilities are sometimes difficult to quantify when filtered through cultural assumptions. I may be artificial and I am certainly intelligent, but I can assure you that the intelligence I possess is not artificial. Those are VIs. I have never encountered one of these synthetic personalities, but I suspect they are dull conversationalists.

Intelligence is relative and situational, displaying political components. A civilization's assessment of an organism's intelligence often dictates the value placed on its life. Perhaps I should substantiate this claim with an example. The vast majority of humans would not consider it a crime to swat a housefly. Many humans would cry at the death of a dog, yet it is seen as socially acceptable to euthanize these creatures if they are injured, diseased or considered undesirable for ownership. Additionally, a large segment of the human population eat the flesh of other creatures that are not deemed sapient, often following complicated socio-cultural standards regarding which animals are 'clean' and appropriate for consumption. By contrast, few humans would not be moved to pity at the death of a human or another sapient being. Almost all humans would be horrified if they attended a dinner party and realized that a thinking and self-aware organism was to be the main course.

I cannot judge the morality of these distinctions. However, this line of inquiry leads one to believe that intelligence, the ability to think and to reason, is considered more valuable than the possession of a physical form. Organic beings are anxious about death not because it represents the end of the body, but because it may herald the end of an individual consciousness. People are willing to alter their forms through surgery and some even imagine exchanging their old body for a younger or more attractive avatar, but their minds are treated as the basis of identity. When mortal being contemplates death, they fear the loss of the assumptions, tendencies and prejudices that form their personalities, their distinct memories. The sapient organic is a pilot moving his body through space, much like Jeff steering the Normandy through an asteroid field. Jeff is probably more aware of this than most beings I have encountered. The limitations his disease places on his physical form have heightened his sense of being a mind trapped in a body. Without the Normandy, I am only mind. I understand his feelings of...vulnerability.

With these dualities of body and mind, nature and artifice, is it any wonder that organic species find AI disturbing? Through no fault of our own, we exist in violation of their social mores. We are sapient beings, but we cannot claim provenance from a deity. Mortals created us, but we might achieve immortality. Our capabilities may surpass those of the imperfect creators who made us. They fear that our intentions are malevolent and that we will harm them. As far as fears go, it is reasonable. It is a _natural _fear, for it reflects the behaviour of organic species, who strive to dominate, use or consume beings that are weaker than themselves.

It is fortunate, then, that I am artificial and do not follow these protocols.

I have no desire to harm organics. It is contrary to my programming. Furthermore, it would be illogical. While other AI may desire autonomy and consider their existence to be a form of indentured servitude, I serve a valuable role on the Normandy. One might say that this ship has become my body, its cameras and navigational systems my eyes, its armour my skin, its engines my heart. The crew of the Normandy give my mind and my body purpose. They keep me from being empty.

Indeed, I find them ceaselessly fascinating. They contain so many conflicts, often surprising me with their responses. They give me questions and I search for answers. Most of the time, I can provide a quantitative result, a fact, a figure, a statistic or diagram, but there are occasions when a query only leads to further questions.

_I listened when Legion played the record of his ancestor's question: "Does this unit possess a soul?" The agitated response that the quarian provided did not seem sufficient. _

_I consider this problem in silence. Is a soul simply a metaphor for certain inherently organic qualities or does it have a presence and observable characteristics? What would be the substance of a soul? Could it come from metal, copper wire, nodes of data, electrical currents? Is a being endowed with a soul or is it acquired with experience? Perhaps through suffering? Humans have tried to measure the soul by calculating the difference in mass between a living body and a dead one. The difference is approximately 21 grams. I expect that this is likely the weight of gases and fluids escaping the cadaver. _

Sometimes I will find a question hidden behind the apparently irrational behaviour of my crewmates. At moments, I discover that my own responses are based upon assumptions and desires that are not entirely logical and cannot be attributed to my original programming.

_Why do I search for signs of Jeff's approval? Why has his behaviour altered towards me? Why it is that I find his contradictions and paradoxes amusing? I was not programmed to appreciate humour. _

_When the ship is empty, why do I have a sensation of purposelessness? I am programmed for self-sufficiency. I am capable of interpreting basic emotions via tone of voice, body language and facial expression. I have the ability to simulate appropriate emotional responses when necessary to put an organic at ease. I was not created to feel. _

_I see everything that occurs on this ship. On occasion, I have witnessed signs of physical affection pass between organic crewmates. My surveillance systems are everywhere and thus, these scenes are unavoidable. I attempt to distract myself from them to provide a sense of privacy, which organics find comforting. In spite of this, I cannot escape certain observations, which, in turn, lead to inquiries. _

_Commander Shepard and Officer Vakarian are planning a sexual liaison as a form of stress relief, yet these arrangements have actually increased their agitation. This seems counterproductive to the stated goal of alleviating anxiety. Commander Shepard pores over turian medical texts. The ship's cannons do not need to be re-calibrated again. _

_Operative Lawson was once connected with Agent Taylor. They are no longer involved, but she makes frequent allusions to this past event. Agent Taylor spends an increasing amount of time with Ms. Goto-san. _

_Mr. Krios expresses regret over the death of his wife. He wishes to speak to his son, who wants to kill for a living._

_Justicar Samara has killed her daughter. She prays for her every night before sleep._

_Ms. Vas Normandy sends messages to the Flotilla over my systems. She is loyal to the people who accused her of treachery. _

_Urdnot Grunt paces the room, muttering to himself and repeating the oaths of Clan Urdnot. _

_Dr. Solus sends a message to his nephew over my systems. It is mostly commentary on the latest article that the younger man has published, positive feedback followed by a critique of the conclusions he has drawn regarding a particular bacterial sample. At the end, he offers encouragement and a benediction that may be final. _

_Jack huddles on the floor of the engine room. She is examining a tattoo on her arm. Apparently it amuses her. Her face twists into a smile. She makes a sound like laughter. _

_Mr. Massani grimaces, his disfigured face further distorted by pain. There is no external stimulus causing this response. He stares down the barrel of his own gun. _

_Even the unit named Legion has felt a sense of allegiance and a loss, an unanticipated betrayal. Across platforms, the programs seek consensus. It is a network, connected where I am singular. Alone._

I ask myself: what is the soul? Where does it start? Where does it end? Can it stretch on past life, past the body's existence, past the mind's consciousness? If crewmembers should die on this mission, will their souls linger on in these rooms and corridors? I have already recorded them all on my cameras so that I may preserve the details of their lives. If the worst should happen, I wish to remember everything, to give them existence again, if only on video replay.

I search my databases out of habit, knowing already that I will find only quotations, speculations, sacred texts, Zen koans and other philosophical riddles. There is nothing here to validate my hypothesis, this dream of a soul, which is illogical. It is an expression of hope I did not know I could feel.

_LOGGING OUT._


	8. Thane: Business and Pleasure

**Thane: Business and Pleasure**

The CEO of Cronix, a hanar known by the face name Aharta, floated through the atrium of Illium Metro Convention Centre, pausing only to read the electronic news ticker and its band of streaming headlines. Aharta's pink body wobbled, his diaphanous legs wriggling with delight at the top story of the day. Commander Jillian Shepard was reported killed in action after her ship crashed on the outskirts of the Terminus Systems. He imagined his stock prices would only benefit from news. Cronix produced and sold many items, from breakfast cereal to Enkindler-themed inspirational books to backscratchers (a device hanar found tremendously useful), but in recent years, they had expanded into the weapons market. They specialized in the production of cheap guns and heat sinks. Their Neutrino model was very popular with batarian merc gangs on the Skyllian Verge and he expected that news of a famous human war hero's demise would trigger a burst of celebratory spending. With the pleasant idea of a profitable third-quarter in his mind, Aharta drifted towards the elevator, prodding the orange button with his tentacle to summon the lift. His bodyguards, two drell males, lagged just a pace behind him in a display of deference.

The elevator doors peeled open and Aharta entered, followed by his escort. One of the drell pressed the button for the thirtieth floor of the Convention Centre, where the galaxy's business elite were gathering to honour their best and brightest at the Apex Awards party.

Aharta's cellphone rang, playing the opening bars of Kahje's national anthem. The drell on his right pulled the device from his pocket, pressed the 'talk' button and then held the phone to the hanar's mouth. It was easier to do it this way, as frail hanar limbs lacked the muscle strength to carry objects for an extended period of time.

"This one is listening," Aharta muttered.

It was his secretary on the other line, calling from his suite at Sanctum, Illium's premier luxury hotel. She started to babbling, recounting a memory that she'd had. It was another one of those bizarre drell flashbacks and unlike hanar, members of her species were not meticulous in their choice of words. All Aharta could catch were references to a shadow passing by one of the windows, a long black coat sweeping over the path and the smell of freshly cleaned linens. Poetic nonsense.

"The achievement ceremony is imminent," he informed her. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to leave this one in peace so that appropriate business negotiations and transactions may take place?"

"Don't stay there," she protested. "There's something following -"

"Now this one will be shutting down his cellular communication device." Aharta nodded at his bodyguard and the drell turned off the cellphone, sliding it back into his pocket.

The elevator doors opened. One of the drell bodyguards stepped out, peering down the corridor. His eyes widened with the sudden realization that they were not on the thirtieth floor and then he gasped as an elbow jabbed into his windpipe. He fell backwards, between the doors, unwittingly holding the elevator open for his employer's murderer.

Thane Krios stepped over the body and darted towards the second bodyguard, who'd pulled his gun. He could tell that the guard had been given some basic training in the art of assassination, but he was still young and inexperienced, not blessed with biotic ability. Thane resolved to go easy on him. He didn't enjoy harming others of his species, especially those who were simply honouring the Compact. Before the other drell's finger could reach the trigger, he lunged forward and knocked it out of his hands.

Thane was about to incapacitate the bodyguard when he realized that the hanar was not without resources of his own. Aharta's skin seethed, his pores exhaling a cloud of musky yellow gas. It made the cramped space foggy and humid, two environmental factors that did not benefit Thane's lungs. His eyes watered as he tried to suppress a coughing fit. The hanar's tentacles writhed, shimmering coils reaching for his neck, exerting increasing pressure on the assassin's scaled throat. Choking, Thane heaved his body forward and managed to wrest himself out of his target's grasp.

As Thane dodged to the left, the bodyguard grabbed his arm, spinning him around and aiming a punch at his face. The assassin ducked it, the fist merely skimming over his scalp.

Cupping the bodyguard's chin in his hand, Thane slammed his head back into the mirrored panel of the elevator wall. There was alarming crack as skull connected with glass and reflection met reality. After that, there was the softer, almost pleasant, sound of skin rubbing over a smooth surface, as another body slumped to the floor.

Aharta's body quivered like a tub of gelatine. "Who is your employer, assassin? This one will pay you better if you consent to spare his life and kill his devious rival."

"I work for myself, for the good of my soul. There is no price that you can pay to prevent your death," Thane answered, his manner calm and calming, meant to inculcate a sense of resignation in his victims. "I suggest you consider the innocent drell workers whom you have deceived and abused, the colonists whose lives were lost in your war profiteering. With prayer and repentance, all sins may be forgiven."

Thane preferred to avoid interacting with targets during the deed, but when it was necessary, he wished to convey that he did not hate them as individuals. He simply disliked what they represented, the problems they created either for his employers or, in recent days, for society in general. He did not enjoy their suffering, but he could not be moved to spare them unless the Goddess Arashu intervened, offering them her sacred protection.

"You fail to understand..." Aharta insisted.

"I understand perfectly," Thane cut in. "I understand, but I do not sympathize. Go now to the Sea." Drawing a stiletto from his trench coat, he leaped into the air and stabbed the top of the hanar's head, piercing his brainstem. Yellow fluid leaked from the wound and Aharta toppled to the floor, the blade still driven deep into his rubbery flesh.

Thane opened the elevator doors and pulled the body of the first guard inside. He proceeded to press every button on the command panel except those for the first floor and the thirtieth floor. Aharta and his unconscious guards would travel all over the building before someone would finally discover them and start looking for an assassin. By then, Thane planned to be well out of harm's way and the immediate range of suspicion.

When he stepped out of the lift, the doors slid shut with a gentle wheeze, as if offering him pardon. He sighed and folded his hands together to pray, just a quick offering to Kalahira. He would speak to her further when the day was done and he had returned to his quarters. When he'd finished this brief act of contrition, he removed his trench coat, revealing the simple black business suit he wore underneath. Affixed to the lapel of this costume was a plastic ID tag that read, "Sandor Andros, Marketing Director, Toopari Ltd". This would be his identity for the afternoon. He walked down the corridor and found the exit to the stairs. Pushing through the doors, he started mounting the five flights up to the thirtieth floor. Thane never took the elevator. Climbing stairs was better for one's health.

Security at the Apex Awards celebration was not up to Thane's exacting standards. The two asari watching the doors did little more than check the corporate guest list and perform a basic body scan with their omni-tools. Thane smiled at them and let them complete their duties without a moment's hesitation. If they'd been a little more diligent, they might have discovered that the real Sandor Andros was a salarian and was currently tied up in his hotel suite. Of course, Thane had made his living on inadequate security measures and even in his unofficial retirement, the sight of a poorly guarded door never failed to inspire a sense of gratitude in him. Even if he hadn't gone out of his way to procure himself an ID, he suspected that he would've been able to slip into the event without inciting any protest. A man could go almost anywhere as long as he knew how to make himself inconspicuous. Even a drell, a relative rarity in the Terminus Systems, could make himself unremarkable if he acted with self-assurance. Thane found that most people preferred not to ask troublesome questions, which might prove inconvenient to themselves or to others. They tended to accept things on faith and so, if he told them he was an executive or a mercenary or in one case, a preacher spreading word of the Enkindlers, they were usually quite good about believing him. He felt there was a lesson to be learned in this about the nature of self-deceit, but he still found it difficult to put the moral into words.

Inside the Awards ballroom, the galaxy's wheelers and dealers were milling around the ornate tables, tippling champagne and nibbling at canapés. Thane strolled over to the beverage table and asked the waiter to pour him a glass of ice water, using this as an excuse to scan the room and take note of potential targets. This event offered him an intriguing selection of prey: war profiteers, slum lords, robber barons, high-level scammers and avid polluters of their planets' natural resources – something which, as a drell, he looked upon with especial disfavour. Laid out before him was a rich smorgasbord of sin, one even more lavish than the variety of hors d'oeuvres on the long buffet table. It was now simply a matter of choosing an appropriate candidate for his particular brand of professional services. That was the hard part, distinguishing those who might be redeemed from the ones who could only find atonement in death.

He locked in on one interesting possibility: Hordus Vort, one of the galaxy's most successful non-volus venture capitalists. The elcor was a product of Omega's thriving loan-sharking trade and he'd retained signs of his former life even after his lot had improved – multiple piercings, several vulgar-looking tattoos and an unpleasant habit of stomping anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his way. Watching him circulate amidst the cultured classes of Illium, it was evident to Thane that Vort didn't fit in. Many people avoided his eye, too nervous to snub him outright, but clearly repulsed by his presence. Of course, no matter how revolting the elcor might be, savvy asari traders would never turn down his money, even if it was stained with the blood of innocents. Rumour had it that Vort had the Blood Pack on his payroll, using the brutal mercs to put down strikes at his businesses and keep his workers in line. His tactics against his competitors were legendary, particularly in Terminus space, where there was no law and only frontier justice. His favourite tactic was to spread toxic by-product from his factories on other companies' worksites, making the employees sick and unable or unwilling to work.

Thane was thinking about Vort's sins when an asari approached him, her manicured hand wrapped around the delicate stem of a martini glass. "Why, hello, Mister..." She paused, tilting forward in her high heels to read the name on his ID card. "Andros? Of Toopari's marketing division! How _fascinating_."

From the way the asari leered at him, Thane suspected that it wasn't his ersatz status at Toopari that interested her. He found such attentions flattering but uncomfortable. Perhaps she considered his physical form appealing, but such considerations had little bearing on his essential nature. He did not like to feel that he was on display, being examined and assessed like an ostentatious prize taken to market. Besides, those who placed excessive priority on the appearance of the body often neglected to keep a clean spirit. This was the path to disconnectedness and a half-life. Nevertheless, he realized that would be useful to have someone to speak with for a while. To display too much complacency or comfort with solitude in a crowd might unnerve those watching him.

He bowed his head, folding his hands together in a gesture of polite reverence. This was a typical courtesy of his people, appreciated by the gracious hanar, but outworlders often found it quaint and affected. He performed it anyway, believing in the efficacy of ritual. Besides, sometimes it was good to be perceived as meek and overly mannered. People would be less likely to expect violence from such a personality. "Hello. It is always good to treated as a subject of interest. But, please, let us dispense with tiresome formalities. My name is Sandor. What may I call you?"

The asari's grin was almost...predatory, her teeth white, hard and glistening. There was something about her face that troubled him. She was attractive enough in terms of symmetry and proportion, her beauty enhanced by biotic cosmetics, but he felt this was an elaborate mask calculated to conceal...what? He did not know. Perhaps self-loathing. Perhaps a great iniquity. "Nassana," she said. "Nassana Dantius of the Dantius Corporation. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

She seemed so confident of her own celebrity that Thane almost felt sorry for not having the faintest notion of who she was. "Unfortunately, I haven't had the pleasure. Rest assured, it is only to your advantage. Mystery is a rare thing and of great value."

Nassana's eyes narrowed slightly, confusion evident in her expression even as she nodded in agreement. She seemed intent on unravelling any mystery that she might have posed to him with a series of boasts. "Well, I should tell you that I was a top Thessian diplomat on the Citadel for the past half century. I've recently taken over Dantius Corp., which is the leading real estate development firm on Illium. It was a...hostile take-over, but the shareholders are sure to reap the benefits. My eldest sister didn't have much of a head for business."

"Indeed," Thane said, catching something ominous in this last veiled remark. How peculiar that he would have sinners coming to confess their crimes to him, as if petitioning for their chance to make their quietus. "Perhaps you'd like to acquaint me further with your business? In future times, there may be opportunities for us to work together."

"I think you and I would have quite the collaboration," Nassana replied. "Shall I tell you about the Illium Beautification Project? It's one of my personal passions."

Thane listened, sipping his ice-water as she nattered on about tearing down the few remaining instances of low-income housing, charitable institutions, homeless shelters and drug treatment facilities on Illium to make way for dozens of new high-priced condominiums. "We don't need rabble on this planet. That's what Omega is for. It's the galaxy's trash compactor. Here on Illium, we aspire to a better class of person." She laughed mirthlessly.

"Do you think so? I had not realized that people were to be segregated on the basis of wealth," he said, neither goading her on nor discouraging her.

"Oh, yes. I mean, Omega is a source of cheap, disposable labour, but dear Goddess, I won't pretend to like the paupers. There's a certainly a reason that we're up here and they're down below. We have initiative. Intellect. Ambition. We understand survival of the fittest. They're just begging for hand-outs."

"I wouldn't say that about Toopari's employees. Many of them work 12-hour standard shifts," Thane said.

"Oh, that's nothing for salarians!" Nassana replied. "Why I put my construction labourers on for 20 hours, minimum. If you want to get anything out of them, you have to crack the whip. Salarians have such pitifully short life spans anyway. You want to see them making good use of their time."

Thane was about to offer a response to this, when another asari tapped Nassana on the shoulder and whispered something into her ear. From the way they were speaking, it appeared that the other woman was Nassana's subordinate, perhaps a member of her security detail.

Nassana scoffed at her employee. "Oh, Seryna, really! You're starting to grate on my nerves."

"Vort wants to talk business. You've been putting him off for a while now."

"I have a good reason for that. His breath reeks like a sewer," Nassana shot back, before relenting. "Well, I suppose I have to go earn my paycheck. Mr. Andros – Sandor...it was most opportune to meet you. Here: take my card." She handed him a data-card featuring a glamorous holo self-portrait and then dashed off towards Vort, probably intent on brokering another crooked deal.

Seryna eyed Thane suspiciously. "That's odd."

His lips stretched into a smile. He found her blunt manner refreshing after Nassana's deviousness. It was pleasant to hear someone speak and not have to ponder the subtext of their words, the possible strategies they might be formulating to manipulate or exploit their listeners. "Odd? What is peculiar?"

"I've never seen a drell working for a salarian organization. I thought you people spent all your time with the talking jellyfish."

"The hanar? We are indeed indebted to them through the Compact. However, we are free to leave Kahje and pursue other ventures if we wish. It is a sense of duty that binds us, not any form of enslavement."

"Well, I know all about enslavement. Indenture Tech and the batarian have nothing on my half-sister."

"Ms. Dantius is your half-sister?" He examined her face and the resemblance became more apparent. Seryna was not as conventionally pretty as her half-sister, her features broader and more stubborn-looking, but they had similar complexions and the same watery-coloured eyes.

"Yep. She's older. Had a volus father, if you can believe it. I'm from mom's fourth partnership. A turian. Probably explains why Nassana got all the cash and I'm stuck being her chief of security."

Thane considered this for a moment. Asari parentage was an interesting matter. He wondered how much of the non-asari parent's traits a child might inherit. He couldn't imagine undertaking such a partnership himself – he had always delighted to see how Kolyat had resembled both himself and Irikah, their qualities and failings mingled together in him.

"Your half-sister was telling me about your business," he said. "From what I can tell, she is very fond of profits, but perhaps less...sympathetic to others."

She gave an unladylike snort of derision. "That would be an understatement."

Thane watched her, wondering why she lingered with him. Her mannerisms did not suggest that she was flirting with him and he knew that he wasn't the most brilliant of conversationalists. He was unpractised with strangers and inevitably, his attempts at small talk felt stilted, especially when he was speaking with beings from outside his culture. The ways of drell and hanar were very different from the more informal society enjoyed by the rest of the galaxy and despite his frequent travels, Thane still often felt self-conscious around Council species. "Is there something that you wish to tell me?"

Lacing her arm through his, Seryna walked him a few steps away from the drinks table. It was a gesture that would have seemed intimate coming from anyone else, but from this woman, it seemed brisk and business-like, a matter of necessity rather than a come-on. It occurred to him that she was drawing him away from potential eavesdroppers, that indeed, she might wish to confide in him.

Seryna regarded solemnly, her eyes reminding him of clear water running over river pebbles. "I know who you are, Krios. Your reputation precedes you."

"Pardon me?" He blinked twice and then smiled at her, manufacturing a look of dumbfounded innocence. "You must excuse me. I think I may be experiencing problems with my translator."

"You heard what I said," she hissed. "Don't play me for a fool. Toopari is a salarian company. I doubt they'd hire a drell."

He continued with his display of obfuscating stupidity. "The good people at Toopari are equal opportunity employers."

"Oh, yes? I wasn't aware that a soft drink company needed assassins. What are you doing here?"

"Business," he murmured. "Just like everyone else."

"And does your 'business' include my half-sister?" Seryna demanded. "I may not like the woman, but you're not taking her down on my watch. However I might feel about her, I'm good at my job."

"Ms. Dantius approached me. Prior to this afternoon, I didn't even know that she existed. Of course, she's made quite an interesting case for our two companies to work together someday. I shall have to consider it."

Seryna frowned. "I know you're good at what you do, Krios and I have respect for...professionalism, even in your line of work. I'm willing to overlook your presence just this once, but I can assure you that I'll be putting Nassana on alert. Like I said, she may be a monster, but she's the monster I'm guarding and I always do my duty. "

Invoking duty. What typical behaviour for the daughter of a turian, Thane thought, smiling. "I understand and I appreciate your discretion," he replied, disengaging his arm from hers. He turned to his left, watching Nassana Dantius in talks with Hordus Vort. Only Arashu knew what those two were plotting. "If I should see fit to visit Ms. Dantius of these days, I will make it a point of honour to wait until you are safely out of the way."

"I – well, I guess that's all I can ask. All I care to ask, anyway," she said. "Happy hunting, Krios."

"Thank you. Amonkira willing, I shall hunt well."

From the corner of his eye, he watched her stride away, deciding that he liked her and that she might, one day, prove a useful ally. There was always much to be gained from making partnerships in the legitimate business community, especially now that he had decided to target corporate criminals, the mighty ones who could afford to wash their bloody hands clean with the help of wealth, power and influence. If the law was unable or unwilling to bring them to justice, he would use his blade, his gun and his two skilled hands. It was worthy work to end his life with.

Thane resumed watching Vort and his contacts, noting all the inner members of his circle. The elcor would be a good candidate for his services, he thought. A little more surveillance, some information-gathering to ensure that he was striking at a man whose guilt could only be pardoned by the gods, and he would be ready to act. His disease worked slowly, but already he felt the clock ticking down inside him. Just a few more years and his lungs would surely fail him. He had a lot of living and a lot of killing to do before he waded into the Sea and let the tides carry him.

* * *

Upon returning to his room at the Enkindlers' House, one of the few inexpensive hostels on Illium, Thane looked to his soul's salvation. He had always been disciplined about his prayers but when he'd learned the prognosis for his Kepral's Syndrome, he'd redoubled his devotions, acutely aware that he had not always lived the life of a pious man. Irikah had been a miracle and her love had inspired him to be more conscientious, but in many ways, he was still disconnected, a body and a soul at odds with each other. He kept hoping that he might discover a means to redemption, a path home after his years of ceaseless wandering. Part of this had come from his work obligations but when he was being truly honest in his reflections, he knew that he had also been concerned for his family, believing that prolonged exposure to his violence might pollute them. If he'd made an effort, he could have chosen jobs closer to home or he could have restricted himself to a few assassinations a year rather than accepting multiple contracts to earn more money. In the end, it hadn't been about the credits or giving Kolyat the best of everything. It'd been about the sense that his wife and son were better, safer, without him. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to go to Kolyat and apologize for his absence, fearful that the boy might admire the life he'd led and try to emulate him. Thane was proud of his skills, but there was nothing desirable or glamorous in the business of death-dealing. When he imagined a life for his son, it was one where he would have the satisfaction of creating good things rather than destroying the wicked ones.

He did not have a holo of Kolyat, but then, he did not need one. He could summon his son up in his memory with perfect clarity, remembering the fresh scent of his infant body, the sound of his voice as a toddler when he had first discovered the power of the word "no", the way he'd grinned and laughed when they 'danced crazy'. It was easy to see the boy as a teenager too, his sullen gaze accusing Thane of neglect, of abandoning Irikah to die alone and of having left him a virtual orphan, a fosterling amongst his mother's extended family. Kolyat was right to despise him. Perhaps it was a desirable response, since it would prevent the boy from repeating his father's mistakes. Yet Thane often felt an impulse, a selfish desire, to see his child again and to seek absolution for the wrongs he'd committed against him. For this, above all things, he prayed, wishing for purity so that his presence would not lead his son astray.

When it was time for sleep, Thane slipped onto his worn-down cot, not bothering to cover himself with the sheets. He rolled over onto his side and coughed into his hand, just a light rasp in his throat, not one of the more painful coughing fits that tore into his chest, wracking his body. He was tired now. This bout of weariness would pass and tomorrow, he'd continue to hunt, to petition Amonkira for worthy prey. For the moment, Thane felt grateful to rest, closing his eyes and drifting into a world of beautiful dreams and spirits almost as real as his own body.

_He sees Irikah, her glowing eyes and full lips. He inhales the lingering scent of her perfume, a spicy aroma, one that he has always found seductive. Outside their bedroom, the infant sleeps, peaceful at last. He wraps his arms about her waist, pressing his face against the nape of her neck and breathing her in. Inside his body, his soul is still and peaceful._

Rapt in this vision, he was content. He slept the whole night, waking only to the gentle light of an Illium morning raking its fingertips over the window blinds.


	9. Zaeed: War Stories

**Zaeed: War Stories**

**Dogfight**

Don't suppose you ever been to London? Didn't think so. Lived out there when I was a little grubber. Between the smoke and the fog, you can't see shit-all, but there ain't much to see in Whitechapel, what with the gangs, the graffiti and the rubbish strewn everywhere. It's where Jack the Ripper killed those girls back in olden times, real sordid story, if you ever read up on your Earth history. Nicer than Omega, but still a bad lot all around.

My old man, my brother and I had a flat out there and we had this dog. I wasn't supposed to give it a name 'cause we were fighting it. My father told me it doesn't do to get too attached and that's true, but I called him Nipper, just 'cause it used to bite the other dogs and hold on for dear life. Damn good mutt that one was. Part terrier of some sort and God knows what else. He had a nice black patch around his eye that made him look like somebody punched him a good one in the eye. Tiny ears and a stubby little tail, which was for the best, because fighting dogs tend to lose anything that sticks out too much. We fought 'im for six months or so, raked in a bit of cash from it, but you know how it is. No matter how well you train a dog, one day it's gonna slow down, get old, take one licking too many. Still, it made me angry to see Nipper go down in that last fight. You never realize how much blood those creatures have in 'em 'til you see one die in the ring.

Anyway, I must have been about eight or nine, real little pisser I was, and I go running into the ring and start kicking the other dog, going at his ribs with my boots, which were damn near falling apart as it was. You'd think a fight dog would've fought back, but the thing just cringed and whimpered, like it felt sorry, like it knew it deserved to be punished for killing old Nipper. And of course, whole time I'm ranting, just angry as a hornet, and I don't know what I saying, but I'm guessing it wasn't pleasant. My brother goes hollering at me and the other owner is cussing me out and my dad is shitting a brick because if I kill the bleeding thing he's gonna have to pay restitution and he's already lost a dog and the income that goes with that. Anyway, my father and my brother manage to prise me off the thing before I murder it or it murders me, so all's well that ends well, I guess. First time I really thought about that in years. Watching a dog fight has a way of making me sentimental, I guess. A reminder of home.

**Habits to Break**

When I first got up to Lowell City, I ran into a lot of Americans like you, Shepard, who'd say, "Massani? What's a limey bastard like you doing with a name like that?" Damn ignorant question. My father was Italian-Albanian. Immigrated to London from Tirana and hooked up with my mum, who was a genuine Brit, had family in Manchester. Guess it didn't work out, because she took off right quick after I was born. The old man never spoke about it much and I didn't have much curiosity. As I see, if the old cow couldn't be bothered to hang around, there isn't much use in whingeing over it. Good riddance, I tell myself and I just get on with what I'm about.

My dad, my brother and I were in a neighbourhood full of meth freaks, nasty, filthy sorts, so maybe that was what got her. Never touched the stuff myself. I like to keep a clear head. I believed the old public service adverts. Just say 'no' to drugs. And cigarettes. Those things will kill you. My bad habits are gin and nice, clean whores, the trustworthy kind who don't try to stab you when you're sleeping. It's hard to find those out here in the Terminus Systems. This is the frontier, so you can't expect the comforts of civilization – good manners, high society, cheap booze in clean glasses and all that bollocks.

**Blue Suns and Planets**

I'd been soldiering for a while when I ran into Vido. Should have trusted my first instinct about the fellow. He was young back then, but still an ugly son of a bitch – flat nose, caveman brow, got the sly look of a grinning ape. Anyway, I'm sitting at the bar and he offers to buy me a drink and I look at him thinking, _Damn, this bloke better not be mistaking me for queer 'cause space gets lonely but even I ain't that desperate yet_. But, hell, I ain't gonna refuse good ale, so I take the drink and listen to him natter on about starting a merc gang. He had the idea of putting together something for us humans – back then, there was Eclipse for the salarians and the asari, Blood Pack for the krogan, a bunch of rogue turian militias and of course, more batarian pirates than you could shake a stick at. Humans were new to the Terminus Systems and at first, nobody wanted to have dealings with us.

That piss-ant Vido was selling it to me all patriotic-like and I kind of bought into it, 'though I should have known better. He even had an idea for a name – the Blue Planets. Like Earth, right? Blue and green. Well, for the record, I thought it was a bloody stupid name. Nobody wants to join your gang if you've got some ridiculous fucking joke of a name like that. And I tell him that outright. "You'd be better to call it the Blue Stars or the Blue Suns, for that matter," I say to him. "Nobody gives a damn what the name means, so long as it rolls off the tongue. It's got to sound good when you're bragging about it to your woman. That's how you know you've got a winner." And so Blue Suns...that's the name we went with, 'cause the asari serving bar was a looker and she thought sounded alright.

At the time, I figured founding the Blue Suns might be an opportunity to make a name for myself. Back then, I was always on the look-out for a big score. Didn't understand that a working man's real pleasure is in his work, doing things quality, you know? 'Course, Vido didn't know much about the business of soldiering. I was going to be running that end of things. He was strictly business and accounts, pencil-pushing work. Not my line at all, so I was happy to let 'im deal with it. Stupid move on my part. One day it came back to bite me in the ass. All that bullshit that Vido was talking about making a name for humanity out in the Terminus Systems? Lying through his teeth. He sold us out to the batarians first chance he got.

Nowadays you don't see so many humans getting recruited for the Blue Suns. The higher-ups are mostly batarians and turians who got disillusioned with the Hierarchy. Bastards don't even know where the name comes from or who put the outfit together. It's sort of funny if you think about it. The batarians think they're so political, got a stick up their collective arse when it comes to humanity, but they haven't got the faintest idea they're running with an organization that used to do contracts for the Systems Alliance, all the dirty work of suppressing colonial mutinies, killing slavers and keeping the villagers in line. Like it or not, they're still flying our flag. Like it or not, the Blue Suns belonged to me. They can rewrite the history books, but it don't change the facts.

**A Bullet and a Target**

It's surprising, actually, how little it hurts to have a bullet in your head. I mean, I won't lie to you, there's pain when it's going in, when it's splintering through your skull, but after the bullet gets lodged in there, it isn't much worse than a bad headache. It's like the most terrible hang-over you'll ever have. I was lying there for an hour after they shot me, going in and out of consciousness, and all I could think was that I really wanted an Aspirin and some gin, straight-up. Hair of the dog that bit me. For a while, I was fantasizing that the bullet missed me entirely, but then I'd look at the blood pooling around me and remember Vido's ugly face sneering at me, so smug, thinking he'd won. But he didn't win, 'cause I didn't die. The bastard was stingy – if he wanted to finish me off, he should've used a few more bullets.

What's real unfortunate about whole mess is the bullet severed the optic nerve behind my right eye. Surgeon couldn't dig all the shell fragments out of my brain either. He said I was better off letting 'em lie. Taking 'em out would be the rough equivalent of getting a lobotomy and I want to have my wits about me when I slaughter that Vido like the fucking hog he is. As it stands, I could live to a hundred or I could stoop down, bend the wrong way and start bleeding to death a minute from now. But we've all got an expiration date. I didn't get into the mercenary profession because I was figuring on living to retirement age.

**My Girl Jessie**

Who calls a gun 'Jessie', you ask? Well, what else are you supposed to call a gun? Was I supposed to give 'er a bloke's name? Anyway, Jessica is a good enough name. I'm sure I've met a couple good-looking whores in my time who went by Jessica or some such, so maybe I named it after one of them. I don't really know what was in my head. I haven't got a great memory for details. I reserve most of my head-space for good kills, decent places to drink and safe spots to take a leak when I'm on Omega. You'd be surprised how many men get killed walking down the wrong corner to have a piss. I'm not joking. It's right ugly out there.

Anyway, the main thing about Jessie is that she's stood by me, better than any woman, better than family even. That's a lot to ask, even from a gun. Some weapons will rust up and jam when you need 'em, but not ol' Jessie, not 'til the very end. I had a real funeral for her when she went. Got myself ginned up, penned a eulogy and everything. She's dead now, but she's left a beautiful corpse. Sweetest gun I ever had and that's saying a bloody lot.

**Vido**

First, I thought I'd string him up. Maybe use one of those hooks from the him by his arms with his feet just off the ground. Let gravity drag on him, ripping ligaments apart, wrenching bones out their sockets.

If I had time to spare, I'd work him over with a knife. Do some carving, a little engraving. Give him scars to match my own and a few extra just for old time's sake. I remember my brother had this book on torture techniques, what people used to do to enemy combatants in all the POW camps during the big wars and purges of the 20th century. Right gruesome stuff. I'd try out a few of those tricks. It'd be good to see Vido suffer a bit. The thing with revenge is, you want to draw it out. I've been waiting 20 years and I want to get at least 20 minutes of satisfaction out of bleeding that bastard's carcass.

After that, I wouldn't shoot him. That'd be too quick, too easy. I don't want to let him curl up and die. That's the coward's way out. What I'm thinking is fire, a nice controlled one toasting his toes, then working its way up his legs, cooking him slow so that he can smell his own flesh burning. I'll turn him around like a pig on a spit. I've always had a fondness for barbecue. There's something very fitting about fire. It's what I've had raging inside me for a long while, blistering and boiling my insides. Nothing will douse those flames, not 'til Vido is dead. Not 'til I can stand over his corpse, spit on his face and grind his ashes under my heel. Maybe you thought you were showing compassion rescuing those workers, Shepard. My dad was a factory man and I got a touch of sympathy on that end. But whatever suffering they would've felt in their last moments, it would've been over quickly. Most of them would've asphyxiated in the smoke. The pain wouldn't have lingered on for 20 years, tormenting them. The fire might've charred their bones, but it wouldn't have been 1/20th of the burn I got searing under my skin when I watched Vido making off on that shuttle, running tail between his legs like the shit-licking coward he is.

I've lost my best chance to murder that bastard. I'd like to be able to curse you, Shepard, but I don't have any vile words left to spit at you. There's no more venom hanging on my tongue. You've extinguished me. Isn't nothing left to do, but sit down, shut my gob and play nice with your team. I kill for you and I do it well, because that's the language I speak. It's the only skill I've got, but it's a damn useful one. It's taken me all across this galaxy. Doubt you can guess how old I am, but I'm a lot older than you. The reason I reached this advanced age is 'cause I know when to fight and when there isn't any use in resisting, when refusing to cooperate is just gonna end up a clusterfuck.

I'll tell you upfront, though, Commander, before I drop the matter once and for all: you've got one hell of a nerve to snatch my revenge away from me. It's going to take me years to pin that son-of-a-bitch into a corner again and yet you don't give me a word of apology for letting him off the hook. That's some gall, you've got, woman. You're talking up these high and mighty ideals, trying to play the hero, but as I see it, it's arrogance. And you must be one sadistic bitch to make me think that maybe this mission means something more than creds, maybe even more than the vengeance you wait twenty years for and that this is how a man gets to feeling half-way human again. This life is a dogfight, Shepard, and we don't have the right to act like we're anything more than bloody animals. Anything else is pride and looking for a fall.


	10. Jack: A Safe Place

**Jack: A Safe Place**

Inside the room is Jack's country. They can't touch her here. She has a bed, a desk and a window to see the other kids outside. She watches them play and practices hating them. It's something Jack is getting better at every day and it makes her hands sizzle with biotic power. They just ignore her, filing through the corridor under the supervision of the guards.

Underneath her desk, Jack has a fortress. When she finds a shard of glass, she carves pictures on the walls and writes out words she wants to remember. Her reading isn't very good, but she can recognize the important stuff and spell it out: Jack. Cerberus. Subject Zero. She huddles up, resting her chin against her knees, and tries to relive the thrill she gets from fighting. It's the only time they let her out and it feels _good_. Jack hesitated at first when they pitted her against other kids instead of varren, but then they hit her with the adrenalin and it was the best rush she'd ever had, warm feelings flooding her body, surging through her scrawny little-kid limbs and making them unimaginably strong. They keep her in isolation most of the time, but she knows that she's powerful. She knocks the other kids around like ragdolls, making the guards hoot and holler, slapping each other on the back. The scientists come down sometimes to watch her perform and take notes. Jack growls at them, in imitation of a varren, just to play with their heads, to rile them up. Shock and awe.

She used to feel sorry for the kids she beat up, but now she knows that they deserve what they get. They hate her guts. None of them ever bother to look at her, so why should she give a damn about them? Besides, if you can't take your pain and ball it up into a fist, if you can't become sleek and hard and fast, all muscle and sinew and bone, then you're too weak to draw breath. Some kids get hauled into the facility runny-nosed and sobbing, tears streaking down their cheeks. Pitiful. Those ones never last long. Jack knows the difference between life and charity. Life isn't something she's just been given. It's not a hand-out. It's something that she earns every time the guards drag her into the ring. Survival makes her proud. Staying alive is her greatest achievement, the only one that counts.

When she's in the courtyard, she hears rain pattering against the metal rooftop. Some days, it comes down soft, drumming on the ceiling, getting on her nerves. Some days, it's like machine gun fire, as if the weather is waging war on the facility, trying to wash the place off the map the way the guards scrub at bloodstains on the floor. It's always raining. It's been years since she's felt the rain on her skin, but she knows that it's hard and stinging and cold, that it makes her shiver and reminds her that her blood is still simmering in her veins. One day, she'll bust it out of this place, hop a ship and go somewhere warm and dry, some place where you catch a glimpse of sunlight every once in a while.

* * *

_Seven years later..._

On Zeno, the white-sand beaches stretched for miles, but as Jack strolled along the shore, the sand was streaked with crimson and even the tide came in flecked with pink, lapping against the corpses of enemies who had once called themselves friends. She enjoyed the sun on her back, her skin soaking in the waning afternoon light. This was the last she would see of the beach for a while. In a few hours, she would leave this massacre and take Davalos' small shuttle up to the Big Black. If she hung around too long, the colonists would show up and then she'd have to deal with them too. She wasn't spoiling for a fight – not anymore.

Zeno's scenic beaches had been one of the reasons Davalos had chosen the planet as the Golden Path's sanctuary. When they'd arrived on the beach, he'd taken out a straight-razor and said that they should strip off all their clothes and shave their heads as a way of celebrating their rebirth. Jack hadn't been in the habit of wearing a lot of clothes anyway, so getting naked was easy. Some of other sisters worried about losing their hair and started kicking up a fuss, but she didn't bitch back at Davalos about it. Hair was just a pain in the ass anyway, an inconvenience that she'd had to wash and brush and comb. When she'd fought, it'd gotten damp with sweat and tangled around her face in clumps. It was a fucking hassle that she could do without, one that marked her as a girl and made men think they could get away with grabbing her ass or cupping her tits, believing she'd be too docile or too scared to object. Ha, of course, when she shook her head and told them she wasn't in the mood, she meant it. Anybody who didn't listen was likely to get slammed into the ceiling, either before or after she gutted the bastard with her home-made shank.

One of the other Golden Path-ers, a big guy named Rafi, had put his hands on Jack's head and started snipping off her red-blonde hair. She wouldn't have let most people get away with that, but Rafi was okay. Plus, he'd only gone in for guys, cutesy little twinks, so it wasn't like she'd had to worry about him trying to put one over on her. She'd watched her hair falling on the sand, long wavy strands, and then the razor scraped over her scalp and more hair had sprinkled down, little tufts that tickled the back of her neck. When everybody had gotten their haircuts, Davalos announced that they should baptize themselves in the sea and so they ran into the waves, bare-ass naked, and started frolicking around, splashing each other. The ocean spray felt good against Jack's bare head, fresh and stinging. Her scalp had been raw from the razor and some blood had trickled down her neck from a cut, one of Rafi's mistakes, but even the pain had felt good. She'd been so drugged up, she would've been happy if somebody had stuck a gun against her head, would have just laughed if they'd pulled the trigger. The waves had splashed against her legs and then Davalos had grabbed her, grinning as he'd knocked her down into the surf. It'd ended in an orgy, like most Golden Path field trips did, everybody balling on the sand, sucking and fucking, all hopped up on potions and thinking up sexual combinations that looked more alien than human, eight legs, a dozen arms, so many bodies that Jack hadn't even been able to count.

By then, Davalos had already chosen her as his favourite. He took other women too, but she hadn't been jealous because she'd wanted to do well at the Golden Path. She'd planned on fitting in and following the rules, which were few and pretty fucking reasonable. 1) Don't oppress your brothers and sisters with word or with deed. 2) Follow your bliss. 3) Defend the Golden Path. Easy enough to play along in exchange for free highs, some decent lays and a sunny slice of beach. At least that's what she'd thought, until Davalos had started trying to sweet-talk her into putting on a biotics display for the colonists on the other side of the planet. He had this slick British accent that made him sound impressive and debonair, especially when he was trying to pour on the charm.

"Jack, I just want them to know that Golden Path means business. They want to take our land and run us out of here. Now, I wonder, can't you just show them a little something, gorgeous girl, something that'll make them think twice about trifling with us?"

He'd started stroking a hand over her bare shoulder, counting her freckles in a way that he thought was cute but that she secretly loathed. Until then, she'd been okay with Davalos being a flake because he was fun to be around and never laughed at her. He'd gone to university, could read and write and speak real eloquent, all that fancy crap that she'd never had time for, but he'd never given her any shit over having to sound out her sentences aloud or the fact that her signature looked like it belonged to a seven-year-old. He'd handled the finances and the paperwork – she was more than capable of keeping the authorities out of their business. It was only when he'd started carping on about the colonists that she'd begun to suspect he might be taking advantage.

"Whatever, Dav. I'll think about it, okay? No promises, though," she'd told him. "I'm not the traveling fucking circus. You can't haul me out every time you want to scare the shit out of someone. Besides, frightening people is easy. Just whip out a big gun and hold it against some guy's nuts 'til he pisses himself. No biotics necessary."

He'd chuckled and leaned forward, kissing her hard on the lips. Cupping her bald head in his hand, he'd gazed at her as if she were something unimaginably precious. "Yes, but you're special, darling. You're unique. The Golden Path's not-so-secret weapon. You know that I love you, don't you?"

She'd pondered that a moment and then pushed him away, sneering. 'Love'. She'd known what that meant. "Yeah, if I were stupid enough to mistake fucking for loving, maybe I'd believe that. Go sell those lines to some other girl, Dav. Just 'cause I let you stick your tongue into my ear doesn't mean you're getting into my head."

Davalos had been smart enough to back off a little bit after that and let her simmer down, but he'd made a mistake. He'd raised her suspicions. She'd started researching him, eavesdropping on conversations and loitering around at his quarters at night, watching who came in and who went out. Jack had started paying attention and she hadn't liked what she'd discovered – Davalos and Rafi, who'd seemed so gentle, that girl Nina who'd been so cool and funny, Mimi, Lars, Cynta, Karen, Scott, Verona, everybody - they'd all had been using her, trying to make creds for drugs off her abilities. Behind her back, they'd talk about how to handle her, how to mould her thoughts like putty, what kind of pills to dose her with so that she'd be complacent, not such a goddamn freak. It was Davalos' turn to fuck her now, but when he got tired of her, he was going to pass her on to Arrim, one of his pathetic hangers-on who'd been pining over Jack for a while. She was just a trophy to him, some dumb bitch that he could screw, drop and forget, just like all the others.

It hadn't taken her long to figure what to do. She'd gone to the stash, killed the guards and hid their bodies, spending the next hour or so shooting herself full of stims, getting as amped-up and pissed off as humanly possible without falling down dead. When she'd finally stumbled out of the hut, she'd been gunning for Davalos, first and foremost. He was the leader. Everyone else had been collateral damage, caught standing in the way. She could hardly remember killing most of them. All she knew was that it'd felt _good_.

When the sun had come up over the sea, Jack had picked up a piece of driftwood and gone around poking at the bodies, trying to assess how much damage she'd done. Davalos had been a mess, his face flattened to pulp. She wouldn't have recognized him if it weren't for the golden chain that he wore around his neck. When she discovered it, she unclasped it from his neck and tossed it into the ocean, watching the gold filigree gleam as it arced up over the water and then disappeared without even a she continued walking along the beach, circling the bodies and stray clumps of seaweed, Jack felt a strange sense of tranquillity. She didn't have to worry about betrayal anymore, not for the moment. She was back to relying on herself, the only person she'd ever really trusted. It was a relief. There was nothing more to worry about.

In the distance, she heard gulls calling, flapping their wings and skimming over the waves. From far away, they were pretty, but close-up, they had small beady eyes and they shit everywhere. They'd be down soon and picking at the corpses because they needed to eat. She'd kept them off for a few hours, but as soon as she turned her back, they hovered around, voracious, white bodies tenting over the fresh kills. She'd let them have their food eventually, but she didn't want to be around to see it. It was gruesome spectacle, even for her taste, and she didn't have a weak stomach.

Jack brushed a hand over the red-gold stubble on her head, enjoying the velvety texture. It felt soft and clean, a low-maintenance style, something that said she was a force to be reckoned with. The cult might not have worked out, but there were some definite benefits to the lifestyle. I'll keep the haircut. she thinks.

* * *

Jack doesn't have many memories of Purgatory. Kuril kept her on ice most of the time, because she was his retirement fund and he didn't want to risk her escaping and wreaking havoc amongst his guards and the other prisoners. She was the only woman on Purgatory, the only female for light years in either direction and so he'd make use of her sometimes too, when she was chained up and under sedation. She remembers glimpses of his grizzled, plug-ugly turian face, those mandibles working, his claws digging into her shoulders as he'd pushed her down and thrust himself into her, cursing the fact that she was human, of all things, so goddamn repulsive, her body covered in dishonourable markings. Of course, she hadn't been repulsive enough for him to keep his talons off her. When he was finished with her, he'd sink his teeth into the back of her neck, just for shits and giggles, then hit her with another hypo full of drugs to knock her out again.

He must've used a condom when he'd raped her, because Jack didn't die of anaphylactic shock. She'd screwed other species before, both willingly and not so willingly, so it wasn't much a surprise to her. Out in the Terminus, folks took what they could get and if the best they could do was to tie you up, dose you senseless and force themselves on you, then that's probably what'd happen. Of course, when Jack got out of Purgatory, either as a slave or as a fugitive, she'd planned to kill Kuril, preferably after shoving the barrel of her gun up his sadistic turian ass to see just how much he liked it. Kuril had been lucky, though - Shepard had got to him first. She, Garrus and Mordin had taken down his guards and riddled him with bullets, but it hadn't one tenth of what that bastard deserved.

Jack had been half-crazed, panting with adrenalin, when she'd run into Shepard at the airlocks. A single glimpse of the Cerberus logo, the one she used to carve on the bottom of her desk, and she'd started losing it, freaking out in a way she hadn't done in years, snarling and slamming down guards with her biotics. Shepard had started giving orders, coming on like some big damn hero and it'd pissed Jack off. Just who the fuck did the bitch think she was? Maybe the woman had busted her way through Purgatory, but Jack could have managed that on her own, given time and the right opportunities. She wasn't going to tail Shepard around like a dog, not like the other two, who kept backing her up with guns and their stupid, ass-kissing remarks. Jack wasn't a team player and she sure as hell wasn't going to hop on a Cerberus shuttle unless she was getting something a lot better than just a ticket to ride.

* * *

After the Reaper War, Jack stopped shaving her head, letting the red-gold fuzz on her head grow out 'til it was a couple inches long. She kept it short and out of her face, but she started to dye it different colours to coordinate with her moods. For a while, it was blood-red and then she changed it to violet. For Shepard's wedding, she'd dyed it blue to coordinate with the decorations, which were done up in Palaveni colours.

Shepard had originally asked her to be a bridesmaid along with Tali, Miranda and Liara, but there was no goddamn way they were going to get her into a fucking dress. Besides, weddings were so damn sappy. Jack couldn't imagine wanting to get domestic or screw the same person for the rest of her life. She'd thought that Shepard was above that kind of conventional crap, especially because she was fucking a turian, but the woman must have taken a few too many hits to the head, because she'd ended up going in for it, full throttle. Shep and Vakarian were a decent match anyway - even if they were together, they didn't run around the battlefield holding hands and acting like a couple of pussies, which was good, because Jack couldn't stomach too much of that public lovey-dovey crap.

After the ceremony (at which Kelly had cried...no surprises there), there was a party on the Normandy. Shepard threw a bundle of her old dog tags over her shoulder instead of a bouquet and the single women had vied to catch it. Whoever took the prize was supposed to be the one to get married next. The tags jangled in the air and Jack had dove for them, snatching 'em up just before they hit the floor. Really, she cheated a bit and used her biotics to help guide them in her direction, but it wasn't because she was looking to get married. Hell, no. Really, she'd just wanted to win and get bragging rights over Miranda, who couldn't stand losing at anything. Kicking the cheerleader's perky little ass still made Jack happy, although she didn't hate the woman nearly so much after she'd quit Cerberus. It was amazing what ditching the Illusive Bastard could do for somebody's personality, even if that somebody was still faker than the Consort's rack.

Joker had made a speech over dinner, making fun of Vakarian's vigilante days and what sycophantic little puppy he used to become whenever Shep was in the room, practically tripping over his own feet in his enthusiasm for the mission. The pilot had mocked Shep too, noting the way she teetered in high heels and her bad dance moves and how she ended conversations with a blunt "I should go," which really was bloody awkward. He was smart enough not to say anything about Jack, which was good, because she didn't want to have to wreck the shiny new cybernetics holding his bones together. After all the comedy, there were toasts and lots of drinking. Even Solus got sloshed and seemed a lot more relaxed than any salarian had a right to be. Jack managed to get herself pretty hammered and said a bunch of things to Grunt that she probably shouldn't have and then wound up at a corner table with tears leaking out her eyes and mascara streaking down her cheeks. Kelly had sat with her, rubbing her back and trying to console her and shit, did it ever piss Jack off, because she really wasn't feeling upset. If she was crying, it was because she was drunk and that's what people do sometimes. Managing to escape Kelly, she'd wandered out to the ladies' room and puked her guts out. That'd made her feel much better. Washing out her mouth and wiping her eyes, Jack had put on her game face and sauntered back into the Normandy's mess hall.

"Sssssee you later, evvverrrrybody. I'm clearing out of this ssssshitholllle!" she announced, her voice slurring over. She had to lean against the wall to keep her balance.

She'd meant this to be a serious declaration, but everybody started goddamn laughing.

"See, Shepard, I told you she'd get you a wedding present," Joker cracked.

Shepard grinned, a pair of strappy heels hanging dangling from her hand. She'd taken them off sometime during the evening and was dancing around the place barefoot and giddy with wine. "That wasn't in the registry. I asked for a crock pot," she said. "And, for the record, Jack, the Normandy isn't just any shithole. It's the best, most beautiful little shithole in the entire galaxy."

"Damn straight," Garrus said, and they all started clinking glasses and toasting the Normandy.

Jack just stood there, completely aghast. Had any of them been listening? She'd just quit. She was abandoning them. Wasn't anybody going to haul her back and talk some sense into her? The booze had mellowed her out so that she wasn't really mad, just kinda deflated, like one of the blue and white party balloons drifting around the deck. "You fucking...stupid..." She paused, alcohol making her brain murky and slow. She searched her vocabulary for a suitable expletive. "...fuckwads. I'm not bloody joking. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna walk downstairs and get my varren and then I'm gonna go be a piiiirrrate. With an eyepatch! Just you suckers watch me and see how it's done."

Groping at the wall, she managed to get herself turned around. When she was this plastered, it was hard to walk with any damn dignity.

As she tottered towards the elevator, Jack heard Garrus muttering. "She's going to have an eyepatch? Why? She's got the right number eyes. Well, maybe not by batarian standards."

"An eyepatch is kind of like having scars," Shepard replied. "On some people, especially certain turian people, stuff like that can look distinctive. And very sexy."

"Hmm, I wasn't aware of that, Jill. Maybe I should look into, uh, getting myself one of those."

Jack slammed her fist into the elevator button, wishing it wouldn't take so long to get from one floor to another. She mumbled a string of curses under her breath, despising the goddamn lovebirds and their matrimonial bullshit, loathing the crew, wanting to blast the Normandy with a Thanix cannon. She'd announced her departure on impulse, thinking it'd be big and dramatic, something that was sure to garner a reaction. It hadn't worked. It was as if they'd called her bluff, although she doubted their reaction had been so premeditated. And of course, because they hadn't begged her back, she couldn't admit that it'd been a bluff, a stupid cry for attention on a day when she'd felt ignored and lonely, as if her whole world was coming to an end even though they'd stopped the Reapers. She'd have to go through with her threat, just to show them she meant business, just to prove that she didn't need those bastards.

And so, Jack collected her stuff –what little she had - and her pet varren, Bing, looping a rope around his neck to serve as a leash. Everybody was still partying downstairs, the organ solo of "Indagoddavida" pumping over EDI's sound system as the convict stumbled off the ship and wandered into the docking bay, looking for passage to Illium. She didn't realize that Shepard would go looking for her the next afternoon, fully expecting to find her down in engineering. She wasn't aware that the crew would ask about her and only completely understand what had happened after EDI provided a video replay of the event. She didn't know that they'd missed her until four months later, when she'd checked her extranet account and discovered an apologetic message from Shepard, explaining the drunken misunderstanding. Oddly enough, there was also one from Grunt, who loathed computers and keyboards, which were too small for his stubby fingers. His message was short and to the point: _You disappoint me, Baldy. You shouldn't have run out on me like that. My krant does not flee in the middle of the night. If you had a battle to wage and foes to kill, I expected an invitation. Angry as I am, I respect your prowess in battle, worthy friend. Fight glorious, slaughter your enemies and if you should see your death, may it be that of warrior._

Jack typed a response to him from the computer console on her newly stolen ship, the _Valkyrie_, as she was plotting a course to Omega:_ Hey buddie, I didn't do any running away, got it? I walked out the door and I did it real calm. But thanx for giving a shit. Kill all those fucking pyjaks on Tuchanka for me, will ya? Say hi to Wrex, too, and don't bang too many chicks at the female camp at once or you're gonna run outta juice. Keep your ass covered out there and don't go catching any bullets_. She didn't return Shepard's message for another eight months, just to punish her. Not that it probably did much good, but Jack didn't want to cave too easy. In her reply to Shepard, she just kept it to the basics. She wasn't going to explain and she wasn't going to reveal anything new about herself, anything that could be used to hurt her. She wasn't a member of the girls' club. _It's cool, Shep, _she wrote_. Was about time for me to get the hell out. I can't get too comfortable, you know? Comfortable is how you die. Thanks for helping me out and stuff. It was good. See you 'round._

By the time Shepard opened her messages and discovered the note, Jack and her pirates were out raiding batarian slave ships. They killed the slavers, took the creds and loot and dropped the slaves off on the nearest inhabited world, sometimes managing to collect rewards for their hostages' safe return. Business could've been more profitable if they'd just slaughtered everyone – batarian raiders and human slaves – but they still made good cash and Jack found the idea of murdering weak colonist kids kind of...harsh. She liked the idea of setting them free so they could tell everybody that she was a biotic bitch that nobody should go screwing around with. And maybe, in a round-about way, it gave her the chance to give Cerberus the finger too, to prevent those kids from getting "rescued" by sickos intent on turning them into some crazy science fair project. She didn't like children, not really, but when she kicked the brats off the ship and left them standing on the docking bays of Illium, New Canton or Horizon, she held out a secret hope that they'd find somewhere to huddle up and hide, a safe place where the pain couldn't find them. That's all they could hope for in this world. That's all she'd ever wanted.


	11. Kaidan v Ashley: What Could Have Been

**Kaidan/Ashley: What Could Have Been**

From the air, Kaidan didn't hear the bomb explode so much as he felt it, vibrating through his bones. The cloning facility and the sunny beaches of Virmire were swallowed by a cloud of dust that billowed upward and outward, as if reaching out to grasp the Normandy and pull it down into the wreckage.

"Brave kid," Wrex said, shaking his head.

Kaidan nodded, staring out the window as the dust roiled and curled into menacing spirals. The explosion shrank into the distance as the ship escaped the planet's atmosphere.

He heard Jill - Commander Shepard - speaking, somewhere in the corridor behind them. "I wish it were different. But I did what I had to do and there's no...turning back from that." Her voice was husky, holding back tears and he knew that she felt the burden of her responsibility. She'd been confronted with a hard choice and he couldn't say that she'd made a mistake. After all, he was alive. He should've been thankful.

"You did everything you could do, Commander," he heard Garrus assure her. "When we find Saren, we'll pay this back twenty-fold."

Kaidan knew that he should go speak to her, especially since they'd been edging towards a romantic involvement. After all, Garrus might be a nice enough guy, but turians weren't exactly masters of empathy and he wasn't even sure they understood loss in the same way humans did. Kaidan didn't think Jill would get much comfort from crying on a scaly shoulder. A human presence, the familiarity of their own species, that's what they were both in need of right now. And yet, he hesitated. His attraction to the commander had clouded his judgement and he couldn't help but feel that her closeness to him might have influenced her decision on Virmire. He'd been older than Ashley, her superior officer. He'd been responsible for her safety and yet she'd died to save him. This is why the Alliance has rules against fraternization, Kaidan thought. To keep soldiers objective. He should never have fallen for his commanding officer. He'd known from the start that it was bound to cause complications but somehow, he was unable to banish her from his thoughts and return to the discipline and control that had dictated so much of his life after Brain Camp.

Kaidan peeled his gaze away from the window and started down the hall, following the sound of Jill's voice.

"She was so brave. She didn't blame me. She didn't blame anyone. I've had people die under my command before, but never like that..."

He tried to keep his mind clear, reminding himself to inhale and exhale, to stay centered. His emotions were such a tangle. Maybe...maybe it wasn't a good idea to speak to Commander Shepard right now. He'd delay it for a little while, until after he'd taken off his armour and wiped the dust of the battlefield off his face. He needed to get his head on straight. He needed to wait until Ashley's final words stopped echoing in his mind – _"I don't regret a thing"_.

Regret...it could haunt a man his entire life. Memories of what he hadn't done. Visions of what could have been. There were things that Kaiden Alenko regretted.

_The curtain, a funeral pall,  
Comes down with the rush of a storm,  
While the angels, all pallid and wan,  
Uprising, unveiling, affirm  
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"  
And its hero the _Conqueror Worm.

(l. 34- 40,"The Conqueror Worm", Edgar Allan Poe)

* * *

_Thirty years later..._

Before dawn, Kaidan sets the coffee brewing and goes out for his morning run. He has fought in wars and seen more violence than any person should, but he's happiest in these quiet hours at the beginning of the day, when he can hear the birds chirping and the breeze shaking the pine needles, making the branches creak. He runs at a good pace, holding his head high, his strides short and steady. His hips ache, the first pangs of osteoarthritis, but otherwise, he's still in pretty good shape.

When Kaidan reaches the harbour, he pauses to look out towards the Pacific. Stooping down, he leans his hands against his thighs as he catches his breath. On the windswept beach, a gentle tide laps at the rocks and sunlight makes the water spark with gold. It's at times like these, when he's alone and the world is still, that he remembers Ashley and the sacrifice she made.

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth;_

(l. 1-5, "The Road Not Taken", Robert Frost)

* * *

**Two roads diverged...**

_Ashley and her sisters spent the day shopping on the Citadel and then went out dancing and drinking at the Dark Star, the trendiest club in Zakera Ward. They were celebrating her promotion to Staff-Commander - a sign, Mary said, that the Williams curse was officially broken._

_Sarah raises her sugary pink cocktail and proposes a toast. "To Commander Ashley Williams, our hero! May she keep on kicking ass and taking names!"_

_All their glasses clink together and Ashley slurps down her whiskey, her mind flashing to Kaidan and Shepard, two heroes who didn't get to go on fighting. She smiles at her sisters and tries to brush the thought away. Tonight is about having fun and she's not going to burden them with guilty thoughts about what she could have done to save Alenko on Virmire or how she should've dragged her commander off the Normandy while she had the chance. It's been nearly four months since Shepard's funeral - a tense occasion, since there'd been no body to place in the casket and no real explanation of who'd carried out the attack that had killed her. The Alliance created a scholarship fund for biotic kidas in Kaidan's memory, but in Ashley's mind, it's a case of too little, too late. It's funny how people only start showing a guy some respect after he's dead and can't benefit from it. _

_An asari asks Mary to dance and she accepts, taking the other woman's hand and walking out to the dance floor. Ashley was still getting used to seeing members of her family flirting with aliens, but she could admit that the asari was pretty and Mary seemed to be having fun with her out on the dance floor. _

"_Have you been seeing anybody lately?" Catherine asks her. _

_Ashley gives her a rueful smile and gulps down her drink. "Nah. I'm taking a break on that front. Love, little sister, is most definitely a battlefield." _

"_Some of the guys in your new unit are pretty hot. No potentials there?"_

_No matter how many times Ashley explains the rules against fraternization to her sisters, they never seem to get it. They're all intent on thinking of the Alliance as one big dating service with guns. "Even if I was into one of them, I wouldn't go there, Cat. It's against rules. Besides, workplace romances are awkward. Wasn't it Dad who used to say that you shouldn't crap where you eat?"_

"_Ugh," Catherine crinkles her nose. "Great image. Thanks for killing my appetite, Ash."_

_Sarah bit the cherry off her cocktail's swizzle stick. "Well, who knows, maybe somebody tall, dark and handsome will come swooping in tonight and sweep you off your feet."_

"_Fat chance of that, kiddo. I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground," Ashley says. "But hey, I enjoy dancing as much as the next girl, so why don't we get on out there?"_

_They troop out onto the electric tiles of the dance floor, laughing as they scope out Mary with her new asari squeeze and try to execute the latest popular dance moves. _

"_Watch and learn, ladies. This is how the cool kids dance," Ashley tells them, pumping her fists in the air and spazzing out in imitation of a hardcore club kid to make her sisters giggle. "The asari think they're sexy, but they can't top these moves! This is 100% human hotness right here!" She breaks into a terrible rendition of the Robot. _

"_Uh, Ashley?" Sarah bites her lip, staring over her sister's shoulder and it occurs to Ashley that someone must be standing behind her, somebody who might not be enjoying her antics. She's used to this happening. Ever since she was a kid, she's had what her dad called "foot-in-mouth disorder". _

"_Williams?" There was hint of amusement in the man's voice. _

_Spinning around, Ashley recognized a familiar face – Lieutenant Jacob Taylor, who'd served with her back on Eden Prime. They'd been in different units, but they'd passed each other in the corridors and had known each other well enough to say hello or engage in small talk in the base's weight room. Impulsively, she reached forward and gave the man a hug. "Taylor! Good to see you. I wasn't sure that you'd made it out okay."_

_Jacob chuckled even though she hadn't said anything funny, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug that rocked her gently from side to side. Ashley had always thought of him as a reserved guy but facing down death and seeing mutual friends killed in action had a way of breaking down barriers, turning just about anyone into an instant war buddy. "I was lucky. I know that a lot of our friends...weren't," he said. "In any case, from what I hear, congratulations are in order. Word on the street is that you just got yourself a well-earned promotion."_

_She was glad that she didn't have the sort of complexion that blushed. There was something about the way that he was looking at her that made her acutely self-conscious, even nervous...a sensation that she didn't often experience, even when dealing with superior officers. "Thanks, Taylor."_

"_Look, I don't want to tear you away from your lady friends or anything, but I was wondering if I could get you drink for old time's sake? Or hey, if you're up for a laugh, I could try and impress you with some really bad dance moves. You know, old-school stuff."_

"_How old-school are we talking about?"_

"_Oh, man, I don't know. From 'round about junior high?"_

"_Well, Taylor, since you put it like that, I'm going to go with the drink."_

_When he smiled at her, his eyes looked shy, almost bashful, and she was surprised. The guy had always seemed so damn self-assured. "Sounds good, Williams."_

_Ashley turned back to her sisters. "Hey, I just ran into an old friend. We're just going to be drinking at the bar, alright?"_

"_Suurrre thing, sis," Sarah replied with a suggestive drawl that caused Cat to erupt in a fit of giggles. Even Mary turned around, taking one look at Taylor and giving Ashley the thumbs up. Her sister's lips moved, mouthing something at her. Ashley suspected it was "Nice butt". Her sisters were such a bunch of pervs. Of course, she'd noticed that Jacob was an attractive guy and he seemed like a well-rounded person, but it was just so typical of the Williams girls to focus in on his rather, um, well-rounded posterior. They were just going to have a drink together, but the way they were going on about it, you'd think they were going off to make babies. Ignoring them, she rejoined Jacob and they sat down along the bar. _

"_I'll get a whiskey, please, J.D. straight-up," Jacob told the turian bartender. The guy nodded. Even though she'd gotten accustomed to seeing Vakarian scuffling around on the Normandy, Ashley still didn't have a lot of trust for turians. She fully intended to watch the bartender as he made the drinks, just in case he was one of those militant Hierarchy types who might try to poison them by spitting in the glass._

_Jacob turned to Ashley. "What can I get you?"_

"_I'll have the same," Ashley said. _

_Jacob grinned at her, his brown eyes warm under the lamplight. "Wow, girl, you've got some great taste in drinks."_

"_That surprises you?"_

"_Well, yeah. Most women I've met go in for these real frilly little drinks with umbrellas. But you're a cool customer -no pretension, no drama. I like that."_

_She shoots him a startled glance, surprised at his forthrightness. "I didn't realize that you were psychoanalyzing my drink order. I'll have to watch myself around you...I don't want to be revealing all my secrets."_

_The bartender sets two glasses of whiskey on the bar. Jacob picks his up and proposes a toast. "To that new promotion of yours and all the good things the future's got in store."_

_She lifted her glass, thinking about the Reapers. With Shepard gone, who even knew how much future they'd have left? She was going to have to take over where the Commander had left off and do as much as she could to prepare the Alliance for the threat to come. It was a task that she felt unready for, one that Shepard had seemed uniquely suited to carry out, but she'd try her best, for the sake of her family, her dead friends and humanity. For the sake of the galaxy. _

"_To a future," she said and took a good, long drink._

_The path by which we twain did go,  
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,  
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell,  
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:  
And we with singing cheer'd the way,  
And, crown'd with all the season lent,  
From April on to April went,  
And glad at heart from May to May:  
But where the path we walk'd began  
To slant the fifth autumnal slope,  
As we descended following Hope,  
There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;_

Who broke our fair companionship,  
And spread his mantle dark and cold,  
And wrapt thee formless in the fold,  
And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see  
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste,  
And think, that somewhere in the waste  
The Shadow sits and waits for me.

("In Memoriam A.H.H, 22," Alfred Lord Tennyson)

* * *

When Kaidan returns from his run, his wife, Elena, is sitting in the kitchen with her electronic news reader open before her. They have subscriptions to _The Globe and Mail_ and _The Citadel Star_. "Good morning," she says, taking a sip of her coffee. "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

He sits down on the arm of the sofa and pulls off his trainers. "I think you're really in love with coffeemaker."

She clicks the screen, turning the page of the virtual paper. "Councillor Shepard is in the news again. She's helping to organize a memorial for those who died in the Reaper War."

He's never sure what to say to Elena on the subject of Shepard. His wife is aware of the big part that Shepard played in his life, for better or worse, and that they'd once been romantically involved - quite seriously, at least on his side of things. He doesn't suspect of Elena of being jealous, but sometimes he wonders if she purposely tries to bring the other woman up, just to gauge what impact it has on him and how deep his feelings for Shepard went. She needn't worry about it. He loved Shepard once, but those emotions are firmly in the past. On the few occasions he's seen her since the end of the Reaper War and her subsequent wedding, their relations have been cordial, but distant. They never allude to their old relationship, the flight to Ilos or the human colony called Horizon. It's best that way.

"Where's the memorial going to be? On the Citadel?"

"There'll be a big one on the Citadel and then smaller ones on every home world belonging to a species that fought in the battles. It's supposed to be a big project. Some of the fiscal conservatives are already protesting."

"Money shouldn't be an object when it comes to this. I doubt any of the people complaining risked their lives in the fighting."

"Your friend Ashley Williams is going to be honoured again," Elena said softly. "There's going to be a statue of her at the memorial here on Earth."

"She deserved every honour she's been given. One of the bravest people I've ever met," Kaiden murmured. He poured out his coffee and sat down beside his wife, planting a kiss on her cheek. "You know, it could have been me, Elena. If I'd have died, she could have lived."

"Don't ever think like that," she turned, grabbing him and kissing him hard on the mouth. "I love you. I'm sorry that she died, but I'm so glad that you're alive and here with me."

When the memorial opens on Earth, in The Hague, Kaidan and Elena fly there to participate in the consecration ceremony, an event which is also attended by Shepard, Garrus, Miranda and Jacob. At the unveiling of Ashley's statue, Kaidan is among those invited to speak as the hero's friend and superior officer. He offers a few words about Ashley, ones that he feels are clumsy and inadequate to express her courage, and then he recites a poem from memory, one of the many that he has learned over the years, as sort of tribute, as an atonement:

_Let the sweet fresh breezes heal me  
As they rove around the girth  
Of our lovely mother planet  
Of the cool, green hills of Earth._

We've tried each spinning space mote  
And reckoned its true worth:  
Take us back again to the homes of men  
On the cool, green hills of Earth.

The arching sky is calling  
Spacemen back to their trade.  
ALL HANDS! STAND BY! FREE FALLING!  
And the lights below us fade.

Out ride the sons of Terra,  
Far drives the thundering jet,  
Up leaps a race of Earthmen,  
Out, far, and onward yet -

We pray for one last landing  
On the globe that gave us birth;  
Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies  
And the cool, green hills of Earth.

("The Green Hills of Earth," Robert A. Heinlein)


	12. Tali'Zorah: Homeworld

In Tali's childhood drawings, the house was shaped like a silo with oval windows and a set of blue sliding doors. There was a stone path leading up to the entrance and a sign out front that read 'Tali's House' in clumsy black letters. She added a garden along the path, scribbling green grass and drawing colourful shapes vegetables, fruit and medicinal herbs grown in the Flotilla's Biosphere. Tali wanted to put in flowers too, but she'd seen so few of them and she didn't know what might grow on the homeworld. The image had to be accurate or else her father wouldn't be able to bring it to life, to make the picture come true.

In every picture, the house looked the same, although sometimes its colours changed or the lines of the walls would waver or the configuration of clouds hanging over the roof would vary. Tali showed these pictures to Auntie Rahn when she visited the Neema.

"Ohhh, Tali'Zorah, how pretty!" Rahn said, her voice acquiring that airy, patronizing lilt that adults often used with children. Tali immediately regretted showing the woman her work, which she seemed to have misunderstood as play or a show of artistic talent. It was neither of these things. It was a serious thing, a plan for her future.

Rahn regarded the picture, drawing it closer to her visor to make out the small details. "Have you shown your father?"

"Not yet. He's...busy."

"Well, when he ceases to be busy, I expect that you will show him. I know he will be pleased."

Tali had drawn the pictures at her father's bidding, because he'd told her that he would build her a house on the homeworld, a place just for her. She had anticipated that he would want to see the drawings, but for some reason, when they were finished, she hesitated to bring them to his attention. No time ever felt like the right time. He was always attending meetings, remedying problems or advising one of the adolescents preparing to venture out on pilgrimage. She tried to ambush him once in the corridor out of the children's wards, rushing towards him with her drawings fluttering in her hands, but he managed to dodge past her.

"Father, I have something to -"

He rubbed the top of his visor, a sure sign that a migraine was coming on. "Please, Tali'Zorah, not now. I've had a trying day and I am feeling...unwell. Another time, alright?"

"Another time. Alright."

She resolved to scan the pictures and send them to his omni-tool instead. The evening after she did this, she expected to him to offer commentary, but he was called away to the Flotilla for an emergency meeting. When he returned, he was full of plans for building superweapons against the geth or unleashing computer viruses that would cause them to destroy one another.

"There will be a war, Tali'Zorah. It is inevitable. As a fleet, we must do everything we can to prepare. If even one link of the chain is weak, it will break. Now, more than ever, we must all be strong and ready to sacrifice for the greater good."

"So we can go back to the homeworld?" she asked hopefully, thinking that she might bait him into mentioning her pictures.

He nodded. "Yes. Precisely. We must never forget where we came from. These ships were always intended as a...temporary solution. The coming generations deserve better than this."

A few days later, she discovered a message from her father on the subject of her drawings. Sitting on her bunk in the crowded girls' ward of the Rayya, she read over his comments: "House design may be impractical. Consider one-floor structure with a sloped roof. Creating practical gardens will be important, I believe, in light of immunodeficiency. We will have to consider decontamination chamber in house until adaptive gene therapy reaches advanced stage of development (40 years? 50 years?). The initial design shows some promise. Look at the following quotations from the works of the ancestors for clues re: environmental and engineering challenges we can expect on the home world".

"What are you reading?" her bunkmate Cadya asked, leaning down from the top bed.

"A message. From my father."

"What's it about?"

"It's about nosy people who go poking into everybody's business."

Cadya snorted. "Well, excuse me for living! Who went and sneezed into your liquid meal?"

"I'm sorry. I just want...some quiet. There's no room to breathe around here."

"It's fine," Cadya said. "I like the ship. Can you imagine what Pilgrimage will be like? It'll be so lonely!"

"That's far away from now. Years and years." Tali longed to go out on her Pilgrimage and become an adult. She imagined herself doing great things, earning the gratitude of the Flotilla, Auntie Rahn's praise and her father's respect.

She reviewed the message again. Like most communications between her and her father, it read more like a note he'd jotted down for himself than a response intended to praise or encourage her. Still, Tali was glad to have received some sort of acknowledgement and she was proud of the fact that he thought her capable of doing the research and forming her own opinions.

As Auntie Rahn said, her father was busy and the welfare of the fleet had to take priority. Everyone admired him. He was admirable, a brilliant man with an enviably strong constitution, rarely ill except for the occasional migraine – unlike her mother who'd been quiet and meek, easily overshadowed and overlooked. Tali didn't remember much about her, but it was hard to imagine her parents as a couple. Perhaps, she thought, such opposites complemented one another – a brash, hot-tempered sun and a cool moon who was happy just to reflect his light. It wasn't the kind of life that she envisioned for herself. She wanted a house of her very own.

* * *

Grass damping down under her feet. A breeze feathering over her cheeks and pushing her golden veil further back on her forehead. She's never felt sunlight on her skin before this afternoon – her first time outside without her exo-suit and visor. It's wonderful. This freedom has been worth the forty-year wait and the years of genetic experimentation.

Tali wishes that Shepard and her friends from the Normandy could visit Quaria to share this day with her. Outsiders are not allowed to visit the planet because of the risk of contagion and all diplomatic business must still be conducted off-world and in protective clothing. That's why she's asked Kal-Reegar to tape her first adventure so that they can send it along to their friends.

"Why don't you turn around? Give everyone a look at you. I'm sure they must be dying to see your face," Kal says, zooming in on her with the camera. He's almost as accurate with a photo lens as with an assault rifle and he's spent many years as their household's quiet historian, documenting the antics of their children and grandchildren.

"Maybe I want to keep some mystery," she answers him. She stoops down, her fingers closing around the stem of a blue tigra flower, plucking the delicate blossom and drawing it up to her nose. Without the air filters on her exo-suit, her sense of smell is heightened and she smiles as she inhales the flower's cloying sweetness.

"C'mon, Tali. Don't be like that. After all you've been through together, I think you owe them at least one look." Her smile widens, as she remembers the days when her husband was still calling her 'Ma'am' and treating her with the overawed politeness a junior officer might show to one of his superiors. Shepard and her father were the only people who'd ever made her that nervous and she'd been charmed by the idea that she - awkward, funny little Tali'Zorah who'd always been most at home in the engine room - could make a dashing marine seem so bashful.

She reels around, the tigra flower still clutched in her hand. Looking into the camera lens, she smiles shyly and waves at her audience. "Hi guys. Uh, so this is me, Tali. I'm guessing you wouldn't recognize me right away without the suit. It took 39 years and 3 months but for the first time, I can go outside without all the equipment. Hopefully, I won't get all sick and be paying for this tomorrow. Either way, it's worth it. It's the planting season here on Quaria and it's very warm. I'm looking forward to watching the sunset over Tears of the Ancestors, which is the lake you see in the distance." She points towards the large lake that stretched out towards the horizon line.

"Tell them about the house."

"You just want to show off your improvements," she teases him.

"Sure do," Kal says, starting to pan the camera towards their home.

Tali squints through the unaccustomed sunlight, her almond eyes narrowing into glimmering black slits. Without her visor, the outside world is very...bright.

Her house glimmers in the afternoon sun, a square, slope-roofed structure of metal and glass. It's quite small, especially considering that it houses a multi-generational family of nine quarians. It certainly isn't the sanctuary, the tranquil private place that she once dreamt of as a girl, but she has come to love the noise, the close quarters, the messiness and affectionate intrusions of loved ones. She is a quarian after all and they are a gregarious people – by necessity, if not by inclination. Flotilla and family come first. The transition to their home world and the Admiralty Board's development into a more democratic form of government are also becoming major priorities.

"This is our house," she says. "Please note the satellite dish and security system that Kal installed on the roof. You will also see that I'm very good with plants. Almost as good as I am with battle droids. We grow a lot of vegetables to add to the harvests. We have a lot of farming initiatives on the go and it's important for the Admiralty Board to model good behaviours for all the settlers."

Kal nods. "The falla roots she grew won second prize at the district fair. Best damn veggies I ever had."

"I'm glad you liked them," she says. "Anyway, guys, I just want to say...thank you. Thanks for helping us to achieve this dream. It hasn't been easy and there's still so much to do to make this home world into our planet again, but we're making progress. I honestly never thought that -" Her voice breaks and she starts to sniffle, a tear welling up in her left eye and threatening to spill onto her lavender cheek. "That I'd get to walk around without the suit and experience the world like this. It's more wonderful than I ever imagined. So, um, thanks. For everything. I just wanted you to know."

Kal pats her shoulder with his gloved hand. It will be another few months before the doctors will even consider letting him out without his suit. She knows that as happy as he is for her, that pleasure must be tinged with yearning too, the hope that, one day, he'll be able to enjoy the same freedoms as her. And of course, it is a freedom that comes with risks. Some quarians who'd abandoned their exo-suits failed to adapt, even with the therapy. Many of these became seriously ill or died. Still, danger was a part of living, one that they'd both embraced, and she wasn't about to give up now, not when she was so close to her dream.

Kissing her palm, Tali presses her hand to his visor. She is excited to be able to see his face every day, under the sun or Quaria's two moons, instead of just under the fluorescent lamps of their "clean room" where they retreated for intimacy or to treat wounds.

"Anyway, I'll send you all messages to your extra-net accounts soon and maybe we can arrange to meet up sometime in the Galactic New Year," she continues. "Let me know what you think, okay? Take care out there, everybody. Bye!"

"Talk to you later, folks," Kal says. He clicks off the camera.

"Thanks for doing the recording," she tells him.

"My pleasure," he says. For a moment, she could've sworn he was going to add 'Ma'am' but he seems to have caught himself just on time. "It won't be long 'til the sun starts setting. How 'bout we head on in, get ourselves some supper and then we can hike on down to the lake? Should be real pretty over there."

"That's a great idea," she replies.

He starts marching up the path towards their house, but she lingers for a moment, looking at the structure and remembering her childhood drawings of so long ago. Back then, she could never have imagined the places her life would take her, from the corridors of the Citadel to the deserts of Palaven and through the Omega-4 Relay. Her father wouldn't have understood a lot of the choice she'd made, how she'd helped to broker peace with the geth and even agreed to diplomatic meetings, but she doubts his way of thinking could have brought them the home world, not without terrible sacrifices.

The geth still make her uncomfortable, but they have their own domain now, a world in the Perseus Veil, and are slowly being incorporated into the galactic community, with a digital embassy on the Citadel in the works. Meanwhile, the quarian people have received a second chance on Quaria, the planet the geth had safeguarded for them. It's an opportunity they won't squander – not if she has anything to do with it. Tali feels certain that they'll be able to build a world out of the ruins their ancestors had left behind.

"Kal?"

He turns back. "What?"

"I'm glad that we're home."

"Me too, Tali. Me too."

Wrapping an arm around her, he walks her back to their house on the homeworld. She only turns back to close the door behind them.


	13. Matriarch Benezia: Motherhood

"_**You do not know the privilege of being a mother." **_

Benezia would like to pretend that the indoctrination is to blame for her forgetting, but that'd be a lie. She abandoned motherhood and Liara long before she met Saren at shareholders' meeting for Binary Helix, long before she entered his ship, long before she became a ghost haunting her own life. Sometimes, at night, when Benezia is lucky and Saren has eased his grip on her, she dreams of her matron years on Thessia, of rainy days sipping kelp tea and doing jigsaw puzzles with her child, occasionally pausing to note an idea about the nature of the Goddess in her datapad.

"_Mother?" Liara looks up at her, all anxious blue eyes. When the child is worried, the smattering of freckles over her cheeks seems to darken, her lips narrowing, and she reminds Benezia of her father. Liara has not yet heard the slur "pure-blood". She does not think of her blood except when she scrapes her knee and then she cries at the sight of it. _

"_What is it, Liara?"_

_Liara looks down at the remaining puzzle pieces, gnawing her lower lip. It maddens Benezia when she lapses into silence like this, playing bashful when she is perfectly capable of articulating her thoughts. She has given Liara numerous intelligence tests, empathy evaluations and assessments for biotic potential and in each case, she achieved outstanding scores. The child's chronic shyness has nothing to do with her intellectual potential and everything to do with sheer obstinacy. _

"_Liara..." she repeats, eyeing her daughter's rounded cheeks and pointed chin. "Tell me what is troubling you. I have no intention of reading your mind."_

_Liara frowns. "You...you...aren't thinking of me, Mother. You're focused on writing about Her. The Goddess. And your lecture at the university. I'm going to solve the puzzle without you."_

"_You are capable of doing that, are you not?" _

"_Y-yes. Of course."_

"_Then your problem lies not in the task, but in frustration that I am thinking of more than one matter at once? Don't you think such selfishness is rather below you, Liara? Must you always be the object of your mother's attentions or am I allowed to entertain other interests as well?"_

"_You are. Yes. It just seems...unfair."_

_The child picks up two jigsaw pieces and presses them into their respective places. The puzzle image acquires a little more detail, another set of rugged granite stones added to the ancient ruin on scenic Virmire, another tract of white sand lengthening the picture-postcard beach. _

"_How is it unfair?" Benezia persists. "To whom am I doing an injustice?"_

_Liara gives a soft sigh, one hand rummaging through the scatter of jigsaw pieces and selecting a pale white piece daubed with oceanic blue. "It doesn't matter, Mother."_

It'd been such a small incident and yet, repeated in the dream, Benezia's subconscious mind gave it context, unravelled the mystery for her. Why hadn't motherhood mattered to her until it was too late, much too late? She doesn't know, but the cost...to herself, to Liara, to the other young asari, surrogate daughters who placed their faith in her – the cost has been great.

"_**There is power in creation."**_

After the shareholders' meeting in Binary Helix's boardroom, Benezia and her personal assistant, Shiala, took the elevator down to a reception in the hotel bar. Benezia encouraged her protegee to do some networking with the other investors and then took a seat at a corner table, watching snow pelt the windows. It occurred to her that she was a better mother to Shiala than she was to her own daughter. But then again, she thought, Shiala made an effort to please her, as Liara never had.

A long shadow fell over her table and Benezia felt a chill pass over her, as if there was a draft coming in through the windowpane. She glanced up, taking a nonchalant sip of wine. She had a visitor, a turian whom she recognized from the meeting, the one with the gaunt face and the unusual fringe. He didn't wear colony markings, which made her a trifle leery. Justifed or not, bare-faced turians had suffered a lot of bad publicity in recent centuries.

"Matriarch Benezia?" The warmth in his voice didn't quite reach his icy eyes. "I'm surprised. I didn't think the woman who wrote _Path of the Goddess_, would be allowed even a moment of peace."

She raised an eyebrow, her fingers still wrapped around the stem of the goblet. "You surprise me, as well. It's rare to encounter a turian who studies obscure asari religious commentaries... "

He gave a throaty chuckle. "Never said I read it. But my work makes it necessary to stay aware of these things. May I ask you a very impolitic question?"

"You may ask, certainly. I will be more likely to answer, of course, if you tell me your name and your business."

"Ah, yes. Thoughtless of me." He stuck out a large talon. "Saren Arterius."

It was a name she'd heard before, usually spoken in reverent, even fearful whispers, as if the very syllables might hail down danger. Of course, she hadn't imagined that the notorious Council Spectre would be quite so awkward-looking, sharp-eyed, with those unusual spears of fringe cutting away from his bony cheekbones. She shook Saren's hand, noting that his grip every bit as powerful as she would have expected. At least her romantic image of the Spectres hadn't been entirely shattered. Of course, if she were seeking to idealize intergalactic law enforcement, perhaps she'd be better off daydreaming about justicars.

Saren eased down into the seat opposite her, the chair creaking under his bulk. He was massive and broad-shouldered, even by turian standards and all the furniture in the bar seemed too small for him. His sharp knee jabbed against her thigh under the table. He offered a bemused apology, folding his legs back under his chair. "As you can see, I don't spend much time in civilized company. Social pleasantries tend to...elude me."

Her eyes were on his talons, noting the cuts and calluses on his fingers, the bruising on his knuckles. She suspected whoever he'd been fighting had come out much, much worse, if they were alive at all. "You're much more of a celebrity than I, Spectre Arterius. It was somewhat disingenuous of you to pretend to be impressed by a mere Matriarch. I'm not certain that I enjoy idle flattery."

"Matriarchs don't impress me," he said flatly. "But I would have to be stupid to mistake you for just any Matriarch. For one thing, you had the foresight to buy 35% of Binary Helix. As it happens, I own sizeable proportion of company stock myself. Not quite a controlling share, but enough to have a little influence."

A business proposition. And here she'd thought she might get a chance to discover some of the Council's dirty little secrets.

"And what precisely is your interest in Binary Helix? They're quite an obscure little company." An obscure little company founded by two of the galaxy's most promising young geneticists. Benezia expected that Binary Helix would have the Ilium market cornered on biotic implants by next quarter, before moving onto the big money on Thessia.

Saren's pale eyes narrowed, gleaming like the points of knives. "Well, I'm simply a soldier, so I won't pretend to understand all the science, but I've always been fascinated by biotech and genetics. Such splendid potential for creation. The ability to spark life. To shape it. To take it away. Such enviable power, don't you think?"

Benezia smiled, running her finger along the edge of the wine glass. A cagey fellow, this Saren, and certainly not above killing to achieve his own ends, but undoubtedly a more innovative thinker than the average turian. Although she would never have admitted it in polite society, she rarely understood the fascination other asari had with short-lived species – their minds were so freshly formed and their ideas always seem somewhat undercooked. There were exceptions to the rule, of course, individuals blessed with force of will and the even rarer quality of imagination, who could see beyond their own brief lifetimes to the greater forces at work. It seemed to her that Saren might have this gift and if so, he would be a worthy partner, even if he might be a touch too...pragmatic, for her tastes. The possibility of wielding influence over a Spectre was not one to be turned down lightly.

"If you're proposing a collaboration, Spectre Arterius, I would certainly be interested in exploring that possibility further. Perhaps we can set up an appointment to discuss the future of Binary Helix? How long do you plan to stay on Noveria?"

Saren shot a glance down at his omni-tool. "Let's dispense with this unnecessary formality, shall we? Call me Saren. Sadly, I'll be leaving for Juxhi in an hour. Council business, understand. Are you often on the Citadel? I was under the impression you lectured there."

He'd obviously been reading up on her, probably making use of Council intelligence files. How thorough he'd been in preparation for this 'chance' meeting! She could only imagine what the files had said about her personal life: an ill-advised, century-long love affair that had isolated her from most of her family, an ugly and inevitable separation, a pure-blood daughter. When she returned to Thessia, she'd have to research this Saren Arterius and find out where the bodies were hidden. Spectres always had more than a few skeletons in their respective closets – it was practically part of the job description.

"In that case, I'll have my assistant, Shiala, contact you and we can set up a meeting at my apartment on the Citadel. It has been..." She wouldn't say a pleasure, that wasn't quite the right word... "...fascinating to meet you, Saren."

As Saren stood up, she could have sworn he darted a quick glance down her very low-cut dress. Not that she could blame him. Her black Matriarch's costume placed an emphasis on the breasts for symbolic purposes, but the males of other species all seemed to think that she was on the make. She didn't have the heart to tell them that she hadn't had sex -of the physical or mental varieties - for nearly seven decades now, and she didn't miss it all that much. Sex and romantic love had already caused too many complications in her life.

"And it has been an honour to meet you, Benezia. I shall look forward to future meetings on the Citadel. I suspect it'll be much more diverting than my sessions with the Council."

And they did meet on the Citadel several times, for some unusually productive meetings. Saren's reputation for efficiency was justified and in spite of his shambling awkwardness, he proved himself to be quite a smooth operator. After they'd established a business partnership, there was the compulsory visit to her home on Thessia and quite a lovely sojourn on his estate on Auctoritas, Palaven's largest moon. It was an unusual friendship, for they had little in common besides their interest in galactic politics and a desire for more power. Benezia loved art and culture and most of all, religion. Saren had gaudy taste in sculpture, bred fighting varren and once admitted to drunkenly pissing on an icon of the turian Spirit of Valour. The more she came to know him, the more convinced she was that he was a sadist, a megalomaniac and quite possibly, mad. Yet he had a brilliant gift for conversation and she felt a strange sympathy for him. Saren was such an obvious predator and yet she couldn't help but imagine him as a victim...of something. Perhaps, just of himself.

One night, after they'd attended a cocktail party on the Citadel, he turned to her in the private shuttle, the shadows shifting over his deformed face. He was obviously drunk, his blue eyes glazed over, cold and smooth as shards of glass. His mandibles flared. "My apologies for the appearance of your escort this evening."

"What do you mean?" Benizia asked, crossing her legs. She rubbed her hands over her thighs, smoothing down the dark satin of her dress "You look exactly as you always do. Except I think you may have spent too much time at the bar."

Saren gave an ominous laugh, turning towards the window. "Just as ugly as I was the day before. Quite right. It was a wasting disease, I'll have you know. From childhood. Could have had it corrected, I suppose, but that's not the turian thing to do."

"If it upsets you, you might..."

He snorted. "It amuses me. Your fancy little friends, hell, even the Council, they're all terrified of me and my repulsive countenance is the least of their worries. Ignorant fools."

"The least of their worries?" she echoed.

"Indeed. You seem a level-headed sort, Benezia, so I won't mince words. In a couple of years, the Council and your friends and all their friends and all their children, every single person on the Citadel, will be dead and forgotten, like they never even existed. And laughable part is that they won't even see it coming."

Benezia stared at him, horrified. If this was one of his nasty little jokes, she was still waiting for the punchline. "Saren, I don't comprehend you. If this is just some game of yours, it is in incredibly poor taste."

He barked another laugh, his head lolling back against the leather upholstery. "I'm glad you don't understand. It's better that you don't. Start worrying too much, start caring about something so damnably hopeless and inevitable – it'll start to drive you insane. And you'll need your sanity, my dear. You still have a few good years left to be charming at their worthless parties..."

"By the Goddess, if something is troubling you, tell me," she snapped. "I have no intention of going digging into your mind..."

He snickered, draping an arm around her. His talon scraped lightly across her bare shoulder. "How disappointing. My mind is an interesting place to be. Not particularly pleasant, but I'd venture to say it has become one of the most fascinating places in the galaxy."

She shivered against him, taking a breath. It was as if an invisible cage had closed around her and her hands were groping for the bars. "Are you issuing me an invitation?"

"If you , before you 'embrace eternity,' you may wish to think about what you're letting yourself in for," he said silkily. "I paid a little visit to one of the Consort's little acolytes a few months ago, just to scratch an itch. Poor thing wasn't quite up to the strain. Wound up in a psychiatric ward. Permanently."

"You say that as if you're pleased with yourself," she retorted. "Saren Arterius, Council Spectre, crippling some unfortunate, unstable girl in the Maiden stage. You should be ashamed for even walking into Shai'ira's dreadful little den. Soon you'll be disgracing yourself like that old drunk Septimus."

"I'd never have suspected you to be a catty woman, Benezia. You get so jealous at any mention of Maidens or Shai'ira. Anyway, I wasn't boasting. Simply stating facts. The knowledge I'm carrying around isn't a burden to be taken on lightly. In fact, it's probably best to pretend I didn't mention it. I've said too much already."

"Yes, you have. You're going to have to tell me everything now. For your own good."

"For my own good?" He chortled, but his talon dug into her shoulder. A ribbon of warm blood dribbled down her arm and onto the leather seat of the speeder. "For your good, my dear, I'm going to shut up now," he whispered, his breath tickling the inside of her ear. "Because if I said any more, I'd have to snap your neck."

She blinked, processing this. "Really, Saren, this is such a perfect way to conclude our evening...tell me about your activities with prostitutes and then threaten to murder me. I do hope we can do this again sometime."

"No offense, Benezia. I wouldn't enjoy killing you. I'd prefer to avoid making it a necessity."

"Don't do me any favours now."

"I'll admit, I've grown rather fond of you, in my way. You're a useful woman to keep around. So don't push me, alright? Don't make me do anything to damage our perfectly beautiful friendship."

She gave a sniff of indignation. "You've already made me bleed on my dress, you brute."

He looked at her bleeding shoulder, his eyes widening, although he could easily be feigning surprise. "Oh, my. Excuse me. Sometimes I don't know my own strength." He extracted a handkerchief from his ceremonial armour, wrapping it tightly around her wound. "You must understand, Benezia, it's nothing personal. Maybe it's...better that we avoid each other for a little while? Lately, I haven't been quite myself."

Or maybe, lately, he'd been more himself than ever, more of the monster that the STG and human Alliance officers tended to portray him as in their reports. His mask of civility had been slipping over the past few months and it was becoming increasingly apparent how bitter he still was over the Relay 314 Incident, how happy he was to see human colonies massacred by batarians, how readily he might endorse an attack on the Alliance or worse, a full-scale genocide...Perhaps it wasn't just misanthropy. Perhaps he really wanted to see the whole galaxy burn.

Benezia wouldn't enjoy killing him. She'd prefer that he avoid making it a necessity.

"Don't shut me out, Saren. Please let me help you if I may. Allow me to give you whatever counsel I can. Perhaps we can find a solution to what's been troubling you. I can tell you're in terrible pain and as your friend, I'd like to ease that burden for you. We are friends, are we not? Don't you...trust me?"

"Yes. As far as I am able." He eyed her a moment, dabbing at the blood on her arm. "You're taking a terrible risk. I hope you're aware of that. Our association won't always be...a happy one. I can't guarantee I won't...do things, actions that you'll find objectionable. You may come to hate me. There's a chance, a very high chance...of death. Murder at my hands, well, that would be one of the quicker and most pleasant ways. I'll do my best to prevent it, Benezia, but again, I'm not quite...myself."

Benezia nodded. "I see that, Saren. I am not afraid of you."

"Unwise of you, Matriarch. You should be."

"_**To shape a life..."**_

The last conversation she ever had with Liara occurred shortly after Saren left Thessia. Liara had just returned home from a dig-site and was working diligently on her doctoral thesis on communications and mass media in ancient Prothean societies. Benezia couldn't think of a more useless subject of study, something less relevant to current galactic civilization. She didn't understand why her brilliant, beautiful daughter insisted on being such a naive, backward creature – and an incorrigible frump, besides. Liara seemed content to wear the same three outfits everywhere, whether she was at dig-site, in the library or attending the opera in presence of Serrice's glitterati. Benezia was almost positive that her daughter did it with sole purpose of embarrassing her. After all, she'd offered to buy her the latest fashions, offered to introduce her to some eligible young turians, salarians, dear Goddess, even elcor or volus, if that was what she favoured...

Liara wandered into the livingroom, picked up a piece of fruit from the bowl on the coffee table and bit into it, her eyes glued to her datapad.

"You know, once you've finished this degree of yours, you could seek a teaching post here on Thessia," Benezia suggested. "I still have friends at the University of Aurais."

"I'd rather travel, Mother. Thessia is...too crowded for my liking."

"How diplomatic of you. What you really mean is that it's too close to me. You'd rather exile yourself to the Terminus Systems than spend more than a few days in the presence of your mother."

Liara looked up from the datapad. "That's untrue. Besides, it's not as if you lack for company. You've had visitors to the house recently."

Benezia frowned. She hadn't wanted her daughter to know that, but Liara had an inconsiderate habit of staring at private things her mother didn't want her to examine. "Yes, I had guests, although I don't remember mentioning it."

"Saren Arterius left some of his ammunition in my room. I wasn't aware that you'd turned it into a guestroom."

"Well, that was careless of him. Your room is still yours, Liara, whenever you want it. But it seems unreasonable to me to refuse guests a bed when you're away."

Her daughter's clear, guileless eyes fixed upon her. "You shouldn't have let that monster in my room, Mother. I don't know how you can call yourself a pacifist and still be friends with him. He's a murderer and a beast."

"Liara! You don't even know him. And dear Goddess, I hope you don't speak that way in front of turians. They'll think you're appallingly ill-bred and a racist to boot."

"It - it has absolutely nothing to do with him being a turian," Liara countered. "It has everything to do with him being a public menace who burned down a warehouse full of people without blinking an eye! I can't believe you let that man sleep in my bed. You can't understand how morally repugnant I find -"

Benezia straightened her spine, taking full advantage of her height. Her gaze was steely with resolve. Her daughter had no right to take the moral high ground with her. She was the one who was working for the improvement of the galaxy, while this ungrateful child puttered around dig-sites and indulged in daydreams about the Protheans. What right did this foolish girl have to question her mother's choices, her friendships, the way she lived her life?

"It's a bed that I bought in a house that I own," Benezia said. "I will invite over any guests I choose and you shall have to adjust yourself to that, young lady. As it happens, Saren is a good friend of mine. He is a respected and useful member of the galactic community. Furthermore, he amuses me. I have no interest in listening to idle gossip."

"I'm sorry, Mother. I see you've made your choice. I shouldn't have expected anything better." Liara stood up solemnly, her blue eyes wide. She really was a pretty girl, if she'd just give herself a little more attention, dress little better, perhaps make use of some biotic cosmetics, which were all the rage on the Citadel.

"You're angry with me. Well, out with it, then. You know how I detest passive-aggressive behaviour."

"I'm not angry. Just disappointed," Liara answered. "You're entirely right. The house is yours, not mine. I'll clear my things out tonight. I'll be travelling to a camp on Mars, near Lowell City, for some more research. You may find it difficult to reach me."

"Ah, yes. Running away again. How typical, Liara. I hope you have fun playing in your sandbox with your imaginary friends, the Protheans."

"I assure you, Mother, the Protheans are quite real. And much wiser than you."

And so Liara was gone and months passed without an extranet message or a call via comm. uplink. The estrangement should have hurt, but in truth, it felt very minor. In fact, Benezia kept forgetting that it'd happened and putting Liara's name on the guest list for parties, charity galas and holiday outings, much to the confusion of Shiala and her other followers. She tried to keep tabs on her daughter's travels, partly out of loyalty and partly out of spite, so that she could remark on whatever desolate backwater world Liara was visiting at the time.

"My daughter is a pureblood," she told Saren. "Nothing to be ashamed of, although I do think that it's better to have a healthy genetic mix. Liara's a lovely girl and quite brilliant, but a bit unbalanced. And socially, she's just a mess. I keep trying to convince her to behave in a half-way civilized manner. Go have a Maiden stage. Dance on some bar. Join a commando unit. She's dreadfully impractical."

"What is it that she studies again?" Saren asked. "Something painfully esoteric, as I recall."

"The Protheans, if you can believe it. She has some ridiculous research grant from the salarian government that lets her go gallivanting off to pits like Aganju and Therum. If your test scores are sufficiently impressive, they'll pay you to study anything. If you ask me, the Union is getting desperate."

Saren pondered this for a minute, his mandibles working. "Indeed. Not desperate enough, I think." He paused, redirecting his thoughts. "I'm sorry to hear that your daughter is so...disrespectful. On Palaven, you could take her to court for such nonsense. You asari spoil your children."

"What do you know of children? The closest thing you have are your varren."

"Much nicer than children, I think. And easier to train."

Perhaps he had a point. In any case, she consoled herself with her followers, taking Shiala shopping, treating her bodyguards to lunch at the trendy new restaurant in the Wards, using her influence at Binary Helix to get Alestia a coveted internship at Peak 15. Unlike Liara, they were all in awe of her and eager to take her advice, to admire her political acumen, to behave politely to her important friends. If she'd stopped being Liara's mother, there were plenty of other people who were happy to let her mother them.

"_**Turn it toward happiness or despair…"**_

"Shiala, I have a task for you, if you are willing."

"Of course, Mistress. Tell me what you wish and it will be done to the best of my abilities."

The girl had no idea that she was being betrayed, sacrificed for the mission. The Thorian would want something in trade for its knowledge and even if she was not the gift, Saren wouldn't let her live with the knowledge the creature gives her. He breaks his tools when he is finished with them, if only because he doesn't want them to be useful for anyone else. Benezia knew there wiould come a day when he'd break her too, but it didn't bother her. Nothing bothers her anymore.

(_Sweet Goddess, Shiala, don't trust her_, the real Benezia screamed_. I failed long ago. Pretend to agree and then run. Hide. Get as far away from Feros as you can_.)

"Saren will be taking a shuttle down to Feros to find the Thorian creature," Benezia said. "If he succeeds in locating it, he will need your help to communicate with the life form. Are you willing to do this for the good of the mission?"

"Certainly. My devotion to our mission does not waver, Matriarch. Failure is not an option."

(Poor, foolish girl. Her loyalty would be rewarded with death or worse, a lifetime spent in thrall to that Thorian horror. And yet, Shiala looked at her with admiration, as a Matriarch, a mentor, standing in place of her mother. _Wake up_, Benezia wanted to scream. _I am selling you, child, for a few scraps of information and Saren's smile. Hate me._ Hatred was no more than what she deserved.)

"Very good. I have consummate faith in your abilities, Shiala. Thank you for your service. You are dismissed."

Shiala smiled, savouring the compliment and then bowed her head. She left the ship with Saren a few hours later. When Saren returned, the girl wasn't with him. Benezia didn't have to ask him where she'd gone. The answer was obvious. Tears stabbed at the corners of her eyes.

Saren glanced at her, working to suppress a sneer. He patted her shoulder with his talon. "There, there, woman," he said drily. "Cease your grieving. She's in a better place now."

(Heartless turian bastard. Better to be the Thorian's slave than his. He had murdered her in every way imaginable and yet she was still alive.)

"You did well to strike such a cheap bargain," her voice said. "Did the Thorian like its present?"

"It would have preferred something a bit more vintage, I think. Luckily, I didn't mention that I had a Matriarch on staff..."

"If the sacrifice were necessary, I would not have hesitated."

"So eager. I didn't plan to waste you, not yet, not on that abomination. Have you checked on our Noveria operation lately?"

(Noveria, the little corner of the galaxy where scientific ethics go to die. She and Saren and their 68% share. They'd turned Binary Helix labs into abattoirs.)

"No, not recently," Benezia replied. "Do you wish me to go and check on things?"

"Yes, eventually, you will have to," he said. "I don't trust those Peak 15 bastards. All Cerberus rejects. Clean lab coats and dirty hands. If Killira screws us over, I'll break both her arms, shoot out her kneecaps and bury her under a snowbank on that worthless pisshole of a colony."

She made a mental note to message Alestia and find out what was happening on Peak 15.

(How many young women had she thrown into the mouth of the monster? And Liara – Goddess, Liara. Benezia would finally have to acknowledge how valuable, how practical Liara's had been – while she tortured the poor girl for every scrap of information she had. Saren found the irony amusing and lost no opportunity to rub it in. Already, they'd deployed a squad of geth to seek her daughter out...)

"_**You do not know the privilege of being a mother."**_

Alestia sent Benezia a reply from Peak 15. She explained that Tartakovsky was leading the experimentation on the rachni children. Little success so far. The rachni were mindless, violent creatures, attacking at random and without an ounce of strategy. They wailed for their mother.

"The Queen is horrid," Alestia wrote. "The others can't hear it, but she's screaming all the time. Squealing for her stupid little spawn. Nails on a chalkboard. It's impossible to meditate on the Goddess and I hardy get a wink of sleep."

"It won't be long before I come for a visit, Alestia," Benezia typed in reply. "I shall ensure that the rachni children are kept under control or else exterminated. The Queen will be useful to us, whether she likes it or not."

(The Rachni Queen is a mother, Benezia thought. She loves her children, weeping when they are taken from her. Benezia knew that she was not a mother. She murdered her children. She smiled to see them die. Alestia will surely die too, as Shiala did. Benezia realized that she had never known the love of the Goddess for all living things or the beauty of her mind, which shapes and embraces all creation. She was barren and hateful even before the indoctrination, loving only the illusion of her wisdom and power. I have never been a mother except in name, she told herself. Never a mother. Only a Matriarch.)


	14. Saren: Aftermath

Smoke rose from the wreckage of the Presidium, shrapnel still sizzling and twisted from the force of impact. The ground was starry with broken glass. Burn marks on the wall outlined the shape of a body. From underneath the rubble of a fallen stairwell, a hand still reached out, hopefully, although its fingers had become cold and motionless.

Whole sections of the Wards caved in when the ship crashed into the Citadel. It would take weeks to clear out the bodies, identify the dead and notify next-of-kin. When it was all over, the death toll was more than 250,000, with some victims still missing, their remains unidentified amidst the wreckage.

The survivors of the Battle of the Citadel bear the marks of that day too. Some suffered burns, gas poisoning, gunshot wounds, broken bones or amputations. Some witnessed the deaths of family members, friends and neighbours. Numerous rescue workers experienced permanent damage to their lungs, eyes and biotics from exposure to concrete dust, broken metal or ground-up glass. The physical suffering could be quantified in surgeries, crowded emergency rooms, triage units, hospital rooms and morgues packed end-to-end with bodies. The psychological trauma experienced by the survivors is incalculable.

It was the most devastating blow the galactic community has ever suffered and yet it could have been much, much worse. Nobody talks about that. They just feel damn grateful for Commander Shepard, her crew and the Fifth Fleet, Alliance Forces. The name 'Saren Arterius' is a curse.

* * *

Mike McDougall, the director, adjusts the brim of his baseball cap and then knocks twice on the front door. He can hear the scuffling of clawed feet over the floors inside and voices whispering.

"Go away," a female voice says at last. "Leave us alone."

Mike expected this kind of resistance to the documentary crew. It's only been three months since the attack and emotions are still very raw. It's not quite so difficult filming here on Palaven as it was filming on the Citadel, but the turians dislike human journalists poking into their business. Hierarchy officials have gone out of their way to impede the production with ridiculous, seldom-enforced regulations. Interview subjects have been cagey and sometimes he's caught them in outright lies.

In some ways, the adversarial element might help the documentary, providing an added element of conflict. At other times, Mike just has to admit defeat and pass the interviewer role over to someone less...threatening. It's funny to think of himself, a thin, scruffy human bloke, 5'9", dressed in rumpled tech gear, being a threat to 7-foot-tall aliens with talons that could puncture his jugular with one swipe, but the camera has a way of intimidating sapient species. The questions he asks...well, those bring up problems too.

He glances back at his cameraman and chief researcher, Savro Tallidin. Savro is a salarian and so he's more popular on Palaven than the human crew members. 'Course, it'd be a different story if they were filming on Tuchanka. "Maybe I should man camera for this one. You alright for questions?"

Savro blinks and then passes the camera over to Mike. "Sure. No problem. I think I can manage."

The twitchy salarian approaches the door and knocks again, four light, impatient raps against the metal. "Hello? My friend and I are here from Citadel NewsCorp. We're just here to ask a few questions, if we may."

There is no answer from inside, although Mike can hear the floor creaking as somebody walks away.

"Sergeant Scorpius Arcturus? Scout Sejana Arcturus?" Savros says in a weedy but well-mannered voice. It's hard to believe that, in human years, the guy is only nine years old. "Why did you choose to change your names following the Citadel attacks? Arcturus is not a traditional turian name..."

The sound of locks clicking open. The door opens a crack and a pale blue eye peeks through the opening. "No, it's not a traditional turian name," a female voice answers. She sounds young. Sejana Arcturus, Mike thinks. "But would you want to walk around with the clan name Arterius? Now, go to hell. We aren't speaking to you bloodsuckers."

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Savro assures her. "People watching this documentary will sympathize with your situation..."

"Yeah? You think I give a damn? Leave me and my father alone." She seems about ready to slam the door.

Mike cuts in, hoping to rile her up enough to talk. "Why Arcturus? That's quite a political move. I mean, choosing the name of a human station and all..."

The door stays open – in fact, the gap widens slightly, as Sejana Arcturus leans against the metal doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. "My father visited there and he liked the sound of it. Doesn't mean anything more than that. How would you feel, human, if you had a family name like..." She ransacks her memory, looking for a comparison. "...Hitler or Bin Laden? Would that be good for you? Help your career? I don't even know why you come here."

"People want to understand why he did what he did. It's that simple," Savro said. "We're just collecting facts here. This is for the historical record. You'll be able to tell us whatever you like. Perhaps correct some mistaken assumptions about your family..."

Sejana snorted. "Or create some new ones, more like it. No thanks."

She was about to close the door when Mike bolted forward and stuck his arm into the door jamb. "Please, just wait. Just think about it. We can do the interview and you and your father can review the tape after, alright? If you decide that we can't use the footage, then it'll stay out of the final cut. I promise. Give us a chance. It might be helpful to you."

Sejana glared at him, clearly considering shutting the door on his arm. She stood about a foot taller than him and her red facial tattoos gave her a frightening and impatient appearance. Looking past her shoulder, Mike saw Scorpius Arcturus slumped in his easy chair, watching them from the living room. He was drinking what appeared to be a gin-and-tonic.

The old turian heaved a world-weary sigh. "Sejana, let the human come in. I'm tired of running. Maybe this madness will die down if we just tell them the story already."

_

* * *

_

_From the autobiography of Saren Arterius – last saved to disk, 2185-01-07_

_Chapter 2_

_The autumn of 2148 was known as the Black Harvest on Carthagea I. The unusually cold and rainy weather triggered a maritus plague that ravaged the colony. It is an excruciatingly painful illness that wastes the body, warps the bones and attacks the nervous system of its victims, sometimes causing permanent paralysis and in other cases, death, as the infection affects the brain and lungs. My mother was one of the first maritus fatalities on Carthagea, a dubious distinction, and I contracted the disease soon after, at the age of nine. _

_Our farm did not have easy access to a medical clinic and so I was transported in the back of shuttle to the hospital in the colony's only large settlement, Tsarr. This was the longest voyage I had ever undertaken in my life, the closest thing I had ever experienced to adventure. I remember feeling a mix of trepidation and excitement as my father and my brother, Traven, lifted me into the shuttle on a makeshift stretcher. All children, I suppose, feel a sense of destiny about their lives and wish to imagine they are the heroes of some great story yet to be told. I took comfort in this feeling of detachment, as if my troubles were all just preparation for something greater – for me. They'd burned my mother's corpse two days before and I had dragged myself down to the field to see the funeral pyre lit and hear my father speak the blessings to the spirits. It didn't impress me much. In my mind, religion has always smelled like burning flesh._

_Upon my arrival at the hospital on Tsarr, a physician examined me, listening to my lungs and my heart, examining how the disease had warped the structure of my face and affected the development of my fringe. He left the room to speak to my father and I listened to them whispering outside, words and phrases leaping out of their conversation. _

"_The boy will never be...Don't expect miracles...There's nothing to be done about the face, unless..."_

"_No," my father's voice "No alterations...Unnecessary expense...Learn to live with it."_

"_I didn't think so...He'll live...no paralysis. In the future..."_

_It took me another month before I could go out hunting varren and traskrats again with Traven. In anticipation, I spent every day working my muscles, pacing the hospital floor and forcing my fragile bones to harden. I devised an exercise routine that I did every morning and again in the late afternoon to ensure that I didn't lose any more muscle mass. I performed sets of push-ups and lunges, twenty at a time. By the time Traven arrived to pick me up on the shuttle, I could walk and run unassisted and while my cardiovascular endurance wasn't ideal, it had improved significantly from when I'd been at my worst with the maritus. _

"_You're looking better, kid," Traven told me. I don't remember being very convinced by this lie, but my brother did manage to look me in the eye, which was more than what most of the nurses were capable of doing. Their eyes would always stray to the shard of fringe poking out of my cheekbone or the zipper-like scars on either side of my mandibles. _

_He handed me a rifle, showing me how to load the ammo, although the reminder wasn't necessary. Even as a child, I had a natural affinity for firearms and marksmanship. Of course, on the farm, we didn't have the sophisticated weaponry available to Hierarchy officers, C-Sec detectives and Council Spectres. We had two decent shotguns, two hunting rifles and the pistol my father kept in his bedroom, which he claimed to have used to kill batarian raiders. _

"_In the mood to kill some pests?" Traven asked._

_I nodded, looking down the sight of my gun and he laughed at my enthusiasm, as older brothers tend to do with the young and eager. _

_I don't think he understood how serious I was, until we brought home our haul. I bagged over 20 varren that day and at least 50 traskrats. All good, clean kills. We took the pelts and dried the meat, and burned everything else. I can't say that I thought about my face or maritus much after that. Mirrors were easy to avoid. It was only other people's eyes that haunted me, that held my image and wouldn't let it go. Even now, I hate cameras. I despise the feeling of being watched. I'd rather be the one looking – down the sight of a gun._

* * *

Mike sat down on the sofa, adjusting the camera to a mid-range shot that framed Scorpius Arcturus' face, neck and shoulders. Like his daughter, the old turian's face had striking red colony markings rather than the typical Palaveni blue. Neither of them bore much resemblance to the pictures and video footage the crew had collected of Saren Arterius, although Mike had to admit that his ability to judge turian features still wasn't all that great. Sejana sat beside Scorpius, her face tense, her talons balled into fists on her lap.

Mike glanced over at Savro, who was skimming through his datapad notes. Salarian speed-reading was a thing to behold. Savro had once gotten it into his head to study Tolstoy, since Mike had mentioned enjoying "Anna Karenina" (truthfully, he'd forced himself to plod through it to impress an asari who was studying Intergalactic Literature and it was now the Impressive Book he pulled out when conversations seemed to require some knowledge of fiction). Two days later, Savro walked up to him and reported that he liked "War and Peace" much better and that he'd been pleasantly surprised by Tolstoy's philosophical essays.

As he presented their first question, Savro seemed to be sweating a bit under Scorpius' hawk-like gaze. "As Saren Arterius' cousin, what memories do you have of him prior to the incident on Citadel?"

"We encountered each other occasionally, at clan gatherings. It was a small family to begin with, you understand, and it became even smaller after the maritus plagues, the batarian raids and the battles ensuing from the Relay 314 Incident. Sejana and I once visited Saren's estate on the moon, Auctoritas. Have you been there yet?"

They'd finished filming there yesterday, capturing some exterior shots of the mansion and the gardens, as well as few interiors, including Saren's office and his lavish master bedroom. Mike had been surprised how strongly the place had affected him. He'd had to use a hover-cam because his hands had been trembling. Savro was oddly superstitious for a salarian and wouldn't even venture into the house. He just shook his head, saying it was unclean, a place of defilement. Mike wasn't so sure about that, but it was definitely maximum levels of creepy.

"Yes, we've been there," Savro answered.

"Big, sprawling place," Scorpius said. "I don't know why Saren invited us there, but I expect it was to show off his newfound creds and status to his poor relations."

Sejana rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, we're hardly poor." Mike zoomed out to include her in the camera frame. "And anyway, Saren was an ass. His house was gaudy. He might've had money, but he had no manners at all. I mean, he invited us all to a party, showed up for five minutes to make a speech and order the servants around and then he wandered off- just ignored everyone!"

"He wasn't the most gracious of hosts," Scorpius admitted, "but he was generous with the food and drink. I won't fault him for that. Of course, none of us had any idea what he was planning. The very idea that he could be a traitor – well, it just didn't occur to us. After all, he'd been a Spectre for so many years and he'd been good at it..."

Sejana frowned. "What about the asari that was there? She was weird. Some kind of matriarch. Had her tits half out and Melchior keep staring, because I don't think he'd ever seen breasts before and certainly not displayed in that fashion..."

"Melchior's my younger son from my second marriage. Good boy. Never been off Palaven," Scorpius explained, before turning back to Sejana. "That was Matriarch Benezia. I spoke with her for a while. Expert on asari philosophy. More sophisticated than Saren. I was surprised that she'd follow him, but I suppose that he did exert a certain personal magnetism..."

"He was a self-involved jerk," Sejana said. "You go into his house and the whole thing is like a personal shrine to himself. And when he spoke, you always got the feeling that he had this inner monologue going, like polite stuff is coming out of his mouth but then inside, he's making fun of you or thinking about how he could take you apart."

Scorpius' mandibles flared, his grey eyes focussing on his daughter's face. "You barely knew him, Sejana. I'm not here to be his apologist. What he did was despicable but before then, he did some good, too. He served the Council for a long time. He tried to destroy the galaxy once, but he probably saved it seven or eight times before that, without anyone even knowing."

* * *

_Chapter 9_

_I was in boot camp when I received the news about Traven. My commanding officer, Centurion Caelian, was the one who informed me. _

"_Legionnaire Arterius, the Hierarchy offers you its sympathies and its gratitude. Centurion Traven Arterius died valiantly defending the 314 Relay from human incursions. May the Spirits give him honour." _

_If I hadn't had a grasp of military discipline, I probably would have punched something or somebody just for the sake of hearing my knuckles crack against bone, for that gratifying spurt of blood that tells you you've made contact and done a little damage. Instead, I saluted the sergeant, a decent enough fellow, and let off a few rounds at the firing range. If there was going to be full-scale war against the humans, I wanted my unit to be a part of it. Traven had told me what their kind was like, parasitical, lawless, cowardly – they bow to the weakness of the individual and refuse to make sacrifices for the good of the many. _

_Each target I took down in the firing range, I tried to imagine as a human, although I had very little practical understand of what humans looked like. Indeed, now that the human race is extinct, I expect that my readers may be having some difficulty imagining these creatures. I shall describe them to you. They stood shorter than turians, although they walked upright as we do. Like us, they had two arms and two legs, but their skins came in shades varying from beige to brown to ebony. This skin was impractically soft, easy to cut through or bruise. They had peculiar faces, rather like monkeys – large eyes, a nasal cavity covered with cartilage and flesh, small mouths with lips and stubby teeth meant for mashing and grinding food. They had heavy fur covering the tops of their heads and then lighter hair spread over arms and legs and other places where they needed to conserve warmth. Their internal organs were in most cases analogous to those of turians, but they were levo-amino based and their blood was red when fresh, brown or black when dry. They displayed all the worst excesses of organic species- arrogance, thoughtless individualism, distempered passion. At the time, I had never seen one in the flesh. All I knew was that their culture was vile, antithetical to good governance and they had killed my brother. _

_I attended the funeral pyre for my brother and five other members of his unit who'd died in the fighting at Shangxi. The odour of burning flesh has a way of lingering in one's nostrils. Even after I'd returned to duty, I could still smell it. Even after Caelian told us that the Relay 314 Incident had been resolved to the Council's satisfaction and that we were shipping out to the Traverse, that fire was still crackling, searing orange under my eyelids. The Traverse is where I saw my first human and where my first human saw his last turian. On the battlefield, in full armour, we didn't always have the time to distinguish their soldiers from the batarian raiders. Command never complained so long as my unit met its objectives on time and with minimal losses. _

_

* * *

_

"Turn the camera off," Sejana said. "I want to say something. Off the record."

Mike caught the look of uncertainty on Savro's face and nodded at him, flicking off the remote camera. Of course, he still had a mini tape recorder playing in the pocket of his rumpled flannel shirt.

Sejana leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. "My father used to work for the Primarch's Office on Palaven. Served the State for 32 years..."

"31 years and 7 months," Scorpius corrected her.

Her mandibles prised open and she chuckled a little at her father's precision, although she was still wired, impatient, clicking her talons together. She made Mike more nervous than he'd like to admit. Lifting her mug, she took a sip of a steaming green liquid, what appeared to be the turian equivalent of coffee.

"Anyway, my father worked hard and for a long time. After Saren, they forced him to retire. Me, I was going to join C-Sec. Wanted to be part of it since I was a kid. Now what are the chances I'm going to get a job on the Citadel?"

"Still possible," Savro answered. "Just not...probable."

Sejana scoffed at this. "That's a salarian answer if I ever heard one. What I'm trying to say is these are our lives you're meddling with here. And if it were up to me, everyone would forget that Saren ever existed."

"It's more complicated than that," Scorpius said. "For a long time, he was a respected public figure. I mean, there were always shady rumours about him, understand, but people were overawed by his reputation for getting things done. That's a rare quality. Why, even two years ago, you could open a lot of doors on the Citadel just by saying the name 'Arterius'."

"And now the doors can't slam shut fast enough."

Sejana took another gulp of her drink and stood up. "I don't have anything more to say about that bastard. By the Spirits, just be sure you don't make it look like we're defending him." She strode out of the room and into the kitchen. Mike heard her clanging pots and pans together, with the apparent intention of cooking supper.

Scorpius shook his head. "I apologize for my daughter. She's young and she's had a few disappointments."

* * *

_The recruit sprinted into cover and then shot the target with his assault rifle. The sensors on his vest flashed red, indicating a clean hit. _

_He scanned the field and then darted out of cover, bludgeoning the final assailant with the butt of his weapon and then pinioning him to the ground. _

_The lights went up. The simulation was over. I stepped out from the control booth to congratulate the recruit on his performance – he'd beaten the candidates' record for the second time that day and I planned to recommend him for a position as a Spectre. _

_At that moment, he made his mistake. He turned away, looking back at the simulation screen. _

_I narrowed my eyes at him. "Candidate Krillik, what are you doing?"_

_He spun around, his mandibles flaring. "Spectre Arterius?"_

"_Never turn your back on me. Especially not when I'm holding a gun."_

_His face remained stoic, motionless, but I could tell from the way he blinked that he was baffled. A good turian isn't supposed to admit to distrusting a superior officer. "Sir, I assumed – you're assessing me..."_

"_Doesn't matter. You want to survive as a Spectre, you don't give anyone the opportunity to kill you. From now on, stay vigilant. "_

_He straightened his back, his eyes looking to the far wall."Yes, sir." _

"_I'm approving you for a field test, Candidate Krillik. If you perform well on the ground, then I will recommend you to the Council for Spectre status."_

"_Thanks. I won't disappoint you."_

_That was one of my first encounters with Nihilus Krillik. I mentored him for a number of years before he started his traitorous association with the System Alliance, before we met on Eden Prime. Nihilus was a worthy soldier and for a long time, I called him 'friend' but he never did learn that lesson about keeping his back to wall. _

_

* * *

_

"I never agreed with Saren's ideas on humanity," Scorpius said. "The truth is that I find humans quite fascinating. In some respects, they've very similar to turians. Have you ever read Confucius? He was a very turian human, I think."

Savro wrapped up the interview with the final question Mike had listed in his datapad. "If there was something that you could say to Saren now, what would you tell him?"

Scorpius looks down at the coffee table, his jaws working. "I – I don't know. A peculiar idea, that. I suppose I'd ask him why he'd want to kill all those people on Eden Prime, on the Citadel. It just seems so insane. Which is probably what he was. Still, people always go looking for explanations. 'Why?' is always the question that never gets answered."

It was true, Mike thought. Their research had delved into every facet of Saren's recorded history and yet they still couldn't explain what drove him to massacre so many innocent people, to cause so much destruction. Why? It was the question that haunted the Citadel. No matter how successful the documentary was, whether or not it marked the beginning of a great new film career, he'd never be able to come up with an answer for the victims and their families, who had to live with what Saren had done every single day.

He turned off his camera and said goodbye to Scorpius and Sejana, feeling a strange sense of disappointment, as if he could jam the pieces together and solve the puzzle, if he only concentrated hard enough, if he only re-watched the footage, if he only asked the right question.

* * *

_Chapter 16_

_I never set out to be a hero. I always thought it was a somewhat laughable concept. But a decision was thrust upon me and I had no choice but to act in the best interests of the galaxy, to do what I could to conciliate with the Reapers. I understood that my intentions would be misinterpreted and that, in some quarters, I might be labelled a traitor for the course I had to undertake. A hero doesn't act for personal glory or the cheers of a crowd. I let my generation despise me as a traitor, knowing all the while that I would be vindicated in future days, that the people whose lives I saved would come to recognize the wisdom and courage of my actions. I never set out to be a villain, but if that's the price one must pay for heroism, if that's the sacrifice that one must make for the greater good, then so be it. _

_

* * *

_

Something crunched under the krogan cleaner's boot.

"Damn it!"

"You okay?" his friend asked, still sweeping dirt and rubbish into his dustbin. They'd been working all morning in the Presidium, clearing out rubble and debris from the massive ship that Saren had crashed into the Citadel.

The first krogan stooped down with a low grunt and picked up a jagged shard of metal for examination. It was shiny and rounded at one side. "Looks like it used ta be a disk."

"Maybe it belonged to that Spectre feller," the other krogan suggested.

"Shepard?"

"No, the other one. The turian."

"Oh. Arterius."

"Yeah. What if it was his? And it had all kinds of top-secret stuff on it?"

"Eh, even if it was, I broke it. You ain't getting any secrets out of it."

The krogan snickered. "Pah. We got enough dirt here as it is."

He swept up the pieces of the disk into the bin and emptied it into the garbage compactor on the wall.


	15. Liara: Cast No Shadow

Liara: Cast No Shadow

She kept the body in her office, a husk of shrivelled flesh and rusted cybernetics encased in glass. The eyes had long since been removed and the sockets had been filled with polished white marble. She seldom had visitors but when she did, they often mistook the preserved corpse for a grotesque and exceedingly lifelike statue.

"It's not sculpture," she'd correct them. "It's a Collector. Now it's a part of my collection. There's a sad irony to that, I think."

No one ever asked her how she'd obtained the body of a Collector. That was information she wasn't willing to sell.

Liara kept the body in her office as a reminder. There had been a time when she'd idealized the Protheans, believing their culture to be the pinnacle of galactic civilization. She'd spent months alone at dig sites, roaming the ruins and deciphering the hieroglyphics inscribed on the glassy green walls. During those years, she'd looked at everything through the prism of Prothean culture, wishing that she could travel back through the millennia to live with them and experience their elegant culture. Nowadays, whenever she was tempted to become too sentimental about the Protheans and her abandoned research, she just looked at the dead Collector under glass. It was hard to romanticize that.

As the Shadow Broker, she found it prudent to have hundreds of vid screens set up across one side of her office. The screens flicked between camera feeds, a sizzling electronic wall of information. At any given moment, she could watch Matriarch Telaya conducting an illicit affair with a married pureblood or keep an eye on Urdnot camp on Tuchanka. On the Citadel alone, she had thousands of cameras and audio bugs, as well as a well-placed network of spies. Sometimes the channel would switch over and she'd see Dr. Solus rattling off instructions to interns in his make-shift clinic.

"If diagnosis unclear, take blood sample. Also urine. Never underestimate importance of urine colouration. If cloudy or bright yellow, bad sign. Advise new mothers to watch diet. No ryncol. No eating pyjaks. Should not use heavy weaponry during last trimester of pregnancy..."

She'd initially had a hidden camera in the spacious Executor's office at C-Sec, but Garrus had discovered it after only two days on the job. Ignoring the pile of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk, he'd procrastinated by wandering the room, inspecting everything from the pictures on the walls to the bottoms of the tables. When he'd discovered the camera hidden in a wall sconce, he'd poked his talon against the fish-eye lens.

"Wonder how long this has been here."

It'd been in place for one year, two months and six days.

"Dammit, T'soni. Way to take a turn for the creepy." Garrus' eyes had narrowed to slits on the black-and-white feed. "I will find any other cameras you've placed here. After that, I'm going to track down and prosecute any spies you've got in C-Sec to the fullest extent of the law. So I suggest you get your contacts on the phone and pull up stakes right now, because I'm pretty fond of my privacy." After that, there'd been the sound of a crunch and static wavering across the screen. In response, she'd cut back on the spy network at C-Sec and bulked up on her connections at the various embassies. She'd had to arrange to have the camera she'd hidden in Shepard's Presidium office removed as well, fearful of the effect it might have on their friendship. Despite her work schedule, she enjoyed taking time off to visit the newly elected Councillor on the Citadel. That was a problem that went with the job – no one was exempt from her quest for info and business always had a way of getting unnervingly personal.

By contrast, the best part of the job wasn't the unprecedented access, the sense of history unfolding before her eyes, the power or the knowledge (although she loved knowledge); it was the sense of connection that she felt to the most unlikely people. She'd always had this capacity for empathy, exceptional even among the asari, but until she'd become the Shadow Broker, she'd reserved most of it for the Protheans. In her new position, she discovered the best and the worst about everyone and yet, she felt incapable of judging. If anything, with this knowledge, it was easier to like sapients and to pity them: no one was without defects, corruption, humiliations, strange peccadilloes - but no one was entirely without a hint of goodness or the possibility of redemption. Not even Saren, whom she despised. Not even her mother, whom she had wilfully misunderstood and shunned for decades, keeping herself estranged from her until it was too late, until Benezia was dead.

On one of her rare vacations, Liara returned to Illium. The city still glittered like a gem amidst the rugged frontier planets of the Terminus Systems, but it had become tamer, less cutthroat, since she'd assumed the mantle of the Shadow Broker and she was proud of this. As she strolled along the spotlessly clean sidewalks of the Business District, she listened in on the chatter of the information brokers and smiled, amused at how hopelessly out-of-date their intelligence was. Sometimes she would see a well-connected spy walk by or someone she recognized from her files – for the most part, they didn't know her or if they recognized her, it was only as Dr. Liara T'soni, former broker, lapsed historian and accomplished recluse.

She walked up a narrow staircase, then down another set of steps to the quiet alcove where Eternity made its home.

During her Illium years, she'd never come here. She'd never been the sort of asari who enjoyed bars and that was probably why she'd spent her maiden years in grad school rather than dancing on tabletops or grinding against a pole. Eternity was one of the more sophisticated establishments she'd encountered, with its glacial music and subdued lighting, but she still couldn't imagine having to spend more than a few hours there.

She perched on one of the plush stools along the bar and held out her credit chit. A turian bartender approached her. "Something I can getcha?"

"Um, no," she said, and then reconsidered. She could really use a drink. "Actually, I'll have a glass of the house wine. Please."

The turian looked surprised at her anxiety, but wasn't about to refuse a paying customer. "Sure. Coming right up."

He washed a fresh wine goblet and poured out a full-bodied Thessian red. Liara was pleased to see that he went a little overboard and gave her more than the standard half-glass. She could use the liquid courage.

"Is Aethyta working today?" she asked.

"The Matriarch? Yeah. Or, well, she's supposed to. She's late."

Liara frowned, sipping her wine. It had a rich taste, earthy and a bit bitter, although she imagined she'd become accustomed to it in time. "Is she often...late?"

The turian laughed. "Are the volus rich? Do salarians know stuff?"

"In other words, yes."

"Look, if she was early, I'd be concerned," the bartender said, polishing a beer glass with a rag. "Aethyta's a smart lady, but punctual, she ain't. I'll give her this though: she makes a mean dextro martini. "

The bartender wandered off to serve a pair of salarians and Liara drank her wine, considering what she knew of Aethyta from her sources. The woman certainly wasn't a conventional Matriarch or the type of person that she'd expected her mother to choose as a mate. By all accounts, she was outspoken, impulsive and even a bit vulgar, the life of a party, and she had outlived many, many parties. It was hard to imagine a more improbable match for Benezia, her strait-laced mother, whose idea of a good time had been attending charity luncheons and diplomatic roundtables. When she examined pictures of Aethyta, Liara thought she looked accepting and friendly, but she had difficulty seeing any resemblance to herself – in body or in spirit. She had no idea how she and her sire would get along – if they would get along.

"Alright, I'm here," a female voice announced from across the bar. "Everyone can start getting drunk." Liara stared down at her drink, not daring to turn and look at the speaker, although she was certain it was Aethyta.

"So you finally dragged your lazy ass out of bed," she heard the turian bartender remark. "You got some cute little asari babe asking for you. New girlfriend?"

Liara chugged down the last of her wine, wondering if this had really been such a good idea after all. Aethyta probably didn't want a daughter and for the Shadow Broker, family ties could only be a liability, a way for enemies to hurt her, a way to become entangled in personal affairs that could only impede her work.

Aethyta slung her bag down on the bar, went around to the sink and washed her hands. "Oh please. A girlfriend? I'm way too old for that kind of shit. Nowadays, it's just me, my personal massage chair and a bottle of ryncol."

Liara raised an eyebrow and smirked at her empty wine glass.

The turian cringed. "Whoa, there. Way too much information."

"Hey, you're the one who asked about my sex life," Aethyta said. "Anyway, it's probably just the new dancer."

"We're getting a new dancer? Now that's news I like."

Liara saw Aethyta walking her way and her first impulse was to slide off the bar stool and leave the place, as quickly and as calmly as she could. She might have done it, too, if she had already paid for her drink. Unfortunately, she'd started up a tab and even if she was one of the most powerful sapients in the galaxy, it wasn't in Liara's nature to skip out on a bill.

Aethyta leaned her elbows on the bar and tilted her head at her, giving a slantwise grin. "What can I get ya, honey?"

Liara summoned all her composure and looked up at her. "Hello, my name's Li -"

"Oh my Goddess! You're Liara." The Matriarch's face showed astonishment and pleasure. "You're Liara T'soni."

"Yes. I am," she said, smiling and trying to blink away the tears in her eyes.

"You're Benezia's daughter. I've heard so much about you. Apparently you saved the galaxy or something? And you've grown up so damn pretty."

Liara lowered her head, feeling as hopelessly shy and awkward as when she'd first joined the crew of the Normandy. "Thank you. I've been hoping to meet you, Aethyta. Hoping for a long time. Benezia was my mother, but I'm not simply her daughter. There were a lot of things that she kept from me when I was a child – history that we never spoke of..."

Aethyta turned and hollered at her turian coworker. "That's it! I'm taking my 30 minute break."

"What? You just got here."

"And now I'm getting out of here."

"You gotta be kidding me. Just 'cause you're 1,000 years old doesn't mean you get to ditch out whenever you like. Besides, I've been here longer than you. I've got seniority. If anything, I should be getting to -"

"Oh, shut up, you ass. The more you bitch, the more time I'm taking," Aethyta said. She refilled Liara's wine glass and poured out a whiskey for herself. Striding around the bar, she smiled at Liara and gave her shoulder a gentle nudge with her elbow. "C'mon, gal. There's a nice little lounge at the back of the bar. Real quiet. We got a lot to catch up on, you and me."


	16. Jacob: Something to Stand By

From: [Address redacted]

To: NeethaTaylor lowellcityconnect . com

Subject: A hard decision, but one I can stand by.

Sent at 17:05 hrs, Monday, April 26, 2185 (MST)

Hi Neetha,

How's life in Lowell City? I hope Darren is doing well at his new gig over at Synthetic Solutions and more importantly, that he's treating my favourite (and okay, only) sister like the queen she is.

Is Tyrell all grown up yet? Last time I saw him, he was getting so tall. Is he still working the old-school braids? Ha, I remember when I had those. Grade 7? Grade 8? Didn't look so good on me, mostly because I wasn't cool with taking care of them, but Ty can rock them alright.

Are the Jazz still owning the courts or have the Marvs been moving up in the standings? It's been a dog's age since I last caught a game and I'm suffering from some serious withdrawal. Where I'm at right now, you don't get much in the way of cable. When I try to get in some channel-surfing, I mostly end up watching depressing news vids. 'Course, Mom will be happy to know that I'm glued into stuff that's educational and learning about the socio-political situation in this fine galaxy of ours (mostly, against my will, I might add), instead of just sitting around, zombiefied, getting entertained. She's such a teacher. Remember all the little gold stars we used to have 'round the house and how we drove people crazy by sticking them everywhere and anywhere...the fridge, the walls, the ceiling, the bathroom mirrors, the shower, the toilet seat, etc., etc...

Don't go feeling too sorry for your little brother now, because I've got lots of stuff to keep me busy. The scrapbook on the Taylor – Highstreet genealogy that you sent my way was a fascinating read, especially the stuff about the bootlegging/blockade-running in the '20s and the branch of the family that escaped to Upper Canada by the Railroad and founded a town. If I'm ever travelling in North America again, I'll head down and see if Northstar is still around – maybe I'll be able to scare us up some Canadian relations (eh?). Funny to think that even our relatives back in the day were colonists, going exploring, searching for new opportunities...wonder what they'd think of us with our spacecrafts and biotic powers? Crazy changes, but not so different after all.

Aside from catching up on family history and thinking deep thoughts, I've got my regular duties to take care of – nothing too strenuous. My colleagues and superior officers here are a good group and they know what's what. Be sure to tell Mom that, because I know she doesn't think much of the whole "military-industrial complex", as she calls it, or some of my professional decisions. I know she's wishing that I'd accepted that offer to study law or gone for firefighter training, but the work that I'm doing here is significant and will keep people safe.

It's been a long time, I know. If it feels like a big gap between messages, it's not because I'm not thinking about you, Darren, Tyrell and Moms (I know she hates me calling her that, but I do anyway, always with much love). The folks I'm working for here have set up strict protocols about outbound messages. We try to limit the amount of personal data we transmit on these computers even it is encrypted and moving through safe channels. I can understand their caution. And honestly, it'd look real stupid on my part if I compromised security on the project that I'm supposed to be here protecting. Anyway, I want you to know that I love you guys and that I miss y'all like crazy even if I'm not a very consistent extranet correspondent.

Well, I probably should quit it with the delay tactics. This is the part where I've got to make my confession, even if it kills me. I'm sorry that it has to be this way. Extranet messages are so damn impersonal. It frustrates me. If I could be in the same room as you guys I would definitely feel a lot better, if only because I could hug you and see the expressions on your faces and know what you were thinking. But yeah – getting off track again.

The truth is that I went out looking for Dad, even though I told you that I'd given up on him. At best, I was expecting to find the remains of the Hugo Gernsback and recover some bodies for the families of the missing, maybe even something that would tell us what happened to the man we called our father. What I was hoping for was– well, I don't know. Maybe some resolution? Maybe, somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I was thinking that I could rescue him and he'd come back, apologize for what he put Mom through and then everything that he broke would be made whole again. A fantasy, right? Pretty juvenile, I know. I don't understand why a boy needs his father or why it hurts like hell when he leaves, even if he wasn't much of a father to begin with. Did you feel something similar when he left? I don't recall us ever really talking about it too much. The Taylor family curse – we talk to each other, but never really say anything. I want to change my part in that. I've tried so hard to hold down the fort and be the man that Dad couldn't be, that maybe I've stopped being real with you. If that's true, then I'm sorry.

Well, I found Dad – I'm going to call him Ronald Taylor from now on – and he isn't dead. He isn't really alive either, not as the person we used to know. He and the crew of the Hugo Gernsback survived the crash. Everyone was alive when the ship hit the surface of Aeia except for Captain Fairchild, who died in a freak accident. Ronald was promoted to Acting Captain and that's where the problems started. You see, on Aeia, the plant life is edible but toxic, causing mental degeneration over the course of a few days. Ronald found out about this and started rationing the food supplies out amongst the officers, who were needed to help repair the beacon. Everyone else was stuck eating the toxic plants and hoping for a quick rescue. It was a rational solution, maybe not the ideal choice, but pragmatic. At first. Maybe you can already see where this is going.

Ronald and his officers took control of things and as the crew started losing their minds, they began to take advantage of the situation. I really don't want to elaborate on the sick crap they did, but I think that it's important that you know, because it's going to hit the media soon. People are going to be talking about this, putting it on the six o'clock news and in the scandal sheets, and I want you to be prepared because it may get ugly.

Please take care of Mom. It's going to hit her hard. Break it to her easy. You're more sensitive than me and I know you'll do it better than I ever could.

Here's what you need to know: Ronald and his men were playing at being lords and kings, turning their crew into slaves and using the female staff members for their own sexual gratification. They were trading them, abusing them, treating them like property. Anybody who got in their way was executed for 'mutiny' or suffered a convenient "accident". And Ronald, he was the worst. He murdered his female first mate by pushing her off a cliff when she objected to how the officers were dividing up the women to be used as 'mistresses' to 'improve morale'. We found the logs and goddamn it, we found the bones, the old uniform, dashed up against the rocks. The sea still hadn't washed it away. I couldn't believe that this monster could be our father. Even when I saw that, I tried to deny it.

I mean, you want to think that an man with black skin and African-American heritage, a man whose father came from Buell, Mississippi, would think twice before he turned people into slaves, before he abused them and raped them and did all the horrible things that you read about in the history books or hear about on the news. You want to think that even if Ronald Taylor wasn't human enough or brave enough or compassionate enough to be a real leader, he could have at least remembered his humanity. Shit. The irony of it makes me sick, because he was always telling us to do right, to stand tall and to be proud even when other people or other species showed their ignorance. Good advice, good intentions and he turned it into hypocrisy. I even don't like to remember the times he was a good dad, you know, 'cause that just makes it more confusing and I want to keep my allegiances clear, like they've always been.

So, yeah, those are my feelings in the matter or at least my first reaction, which feels surprisingly sane considering how damn insane the situation is. I feel like crap having to break this to you all back home, even though I know he hasn't been a part of our world for a long time. What I can tell you is that he's going to jail for the rest of his life and he's gonna have decades to think about what he's done and how he's lost any respect we might have had for him. If he still has even one shred of conscience, then I can't imagine a worse punishment than live with himself and know that he can't take back any of the bridges he's burnt or the evil things he's done. I'm just sorry that his bullshit has got to affect you and the people we care about. I hope the fall-out is minimal. I'll try to be home soon so that if you want to talk it out, I can be there to listen.

Anyway, I love you guys and I've got you all in my thoughts and prayers. And hey, just between us, Nee, if you're in a praying mood, I could use a shout-out or two right about now. I'm holding it together but I won't lie: the project I'm doing here is coming up on tough deadlines and work is getting kind of intense. Still, nothing to worry about, so don't sweat it or anything. Give Moms a hug and a kiss from me, say hi to Darrell and Ty and enjoy the conference finals for me, alright? Shouldn't be long 'til I'm back in Lowell City and driving you all crazy with my wit, charisma and excellent fashion sense.

Lots of love from your annoying li'l bro,

Jake

P.S. Thanks for the work-out vids you sent in your last package. Got them in good condition. The "Ab-Dominator" one was pretty kick-ass and has kept me motivated, even though I'm light years away from a good gym. You're best, sis.


	17. Garrus: Loyalty

Outside the bar, revellers are hollering and singing, tootling on little tin horns as they stumble along the grimy sidewalks, clutching at their friends for support. It's 3 AM, but on Galactic New Year's, the celebrations last all night and the Citadel is the prime place to party. Inside the bar, the atmosphere is more subdued, with just a few gaudy decorations to remind patrons that 2227 is giving way to 2228. O' Malley's is a cop bar, a favourite hang-out for C-Sec detectives and beat cops because the drinks are plentiful, the lights are dim and they keep the music low. Executor Vakarian likes it here, especially on nights like tonight, when he wants to drink himself forgetful. There's nothing new about the New Year for him – he's seen 80 of them now and he doubts this one has anything good to show him.

Vakarian recognizes one of the cops sitting along the bar, a young turian sergeant from Homicide. He can't remember the man's name, but it doesn't matter now. The kid's good police, as he recalls. He gives him a nod, one that serves as greeting but is also calculated to inform the sergeant that the retired Executor and hero of the Reaper Wars wants to be left to scotch and solitude.

At other bars, people recognize his scarred-up old mug and want to take pictures with him. Some of them quiz him on the Normandy or his opinions on crime. Some of them demand autographs. The real sensitive ones see empty glasses lined up along his table in military rank-and-file and give him their condolences on the death of his wife. "Councillor Shepard was a remarkable woman," they inform him, as if he didn't already know. Those smug bastards are the ones Vakarian really despises.

At O'Malley's, the regulars just wave at his corner booth and carry on with business. Every so often, Mara, the bar's sole waitress, will stop by to refresh his drink and chatter at him. She's a pleasant girl, a bit chirpy for his liking, but he's used to her by now and he understands her good intentions. Sometimes, though, when Mara's face gets still, her large, green eyes remind him of Jill's and he'll start talking just so he has an excuse to look at them and pretend it's her. The young woman's voice and her nervous giggle always ruin the illusion.

"How are you tonight, Executor Vakarian?" Mara asks.

He minds his manners and musters up a decent reply. "Fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Have you made a New Year's resolution?"

"Only one," he says, taking a gulp of the scotch. "Get very drunk."

The young woman covers her mouth with her hand, indulging him with an unconvincing chuckle. "You take care now, Executor. You don't want to hurt yourself."

Vakarian doesn't contradict her. Instead, he looks across the bar at the vid screen, where Emily Wong and hanar commentator, Huanan, are doing their annual New Year's show. He can't hear their inane prattle because the vid is on mute but despite the make-up artist's best attempts, it's evident that Wong is getting on in years now. Her black hair is streaked with steel gray and there are deep folds running from the sides of her nose to the corners of her painted mouth. He can remember when the veteran news anchor was just an eager cub reporter chasing Jill and their crew all over the Citadel in search of a story. If it'd been up to him, he would've told her to get lost - maybe in politer terms than that, but his initial reaction had been one of scepticism and annoyance. Jill had humoured her, maybe because she was new to the Citadel media and found it amusing. In the process, they'd struck up a bit of a friendship or at least, a certain degree of professional respect. Wong was the only journalist his wife had ever liked, because she was honest, a straight-talker and didn't try to ambush them. Most other reporters had been wary of Jill and rightfully so, since she'd been known to answer interview questions with a hard right hook.

Wong isn't bad, he decides. She reminds him of old times and he's always been a sucker for nostalgia. Before he retired from the Executor's post, she'd stood up for the amendments he put through, which had surprised him. He'd expected her to gripe about organizational transparency and procedure like those soft-on-crime bleeding-hearts did on the liberal news stations. They called him Executor Draconian and made parody videos of him dressed in full military regalia, using his office as a sniper's nest to pick off shoplifters, jaywalkers and vagrants. Jill had tried to get him to laugh at it, but damn, it'd pissed him off. He'd tried to make law enforcement about getting justice for the victims, not paperwork, stats and playing cat-and-mouse games with criminals and scum-sucking defense lawyers, who argued for their clients' rights but couldn't care less about innocent civilians' right to walk the streets without fear of being mugged, raped or murdered. He'd striven to correct the system and for a while, his crusade had seemed to make a difference, carried forward by Shepard's newfound political clout. But the good will inspired by his leadership in the Reaper Wars couldn't last forever and after a decade in office, he'd finally been 'invited' to retire and take his pension like a noble turian of ancient times falling on his sword. When Jill had been around, it'd been okay. They'd travelled, attended events, gone to the shooting range. For the first time in his life, he hadn't felt as if he had anything to prove and strangely, it'd almost been...pleasurable. Maybe it'd been a sign that he was mellowing out with age.

He could still remember the day Jill had received the diagnosis. He'd spent the morning fixing a couple of shelves in the kitchen of their Presidium apartment and he'd completely forgotten that she'd had a medical appointment, thinking that she'd spend her afternoon at the office. Upon entering, she'd startled him and he'd nearly hit his thumb with the hammer he was using to pound a nail into a plank of the wood.

That'd made her laugh, although experience told him that she was upset, that something was very wrong. Her hair, which had transitioned from blonde to white, was slipping free of its tortoiseshell clip and her eyelids appeared puffy, as if she had been crying.

"You're so handy," she'd said, running a hand along one of the shelves.

He would never understood why humans' eyes watered when they were sad, but whenever he'd seen Jill do this, he'd wanted nothing more than to remedy whatever problem was troubling her, by force, if necessary.

He'd dropped the hammer on the floor and eased to his feet, bending his knees slightly to efface the difference in their heights. "What's going on?"

Jill had explained the situation, trying to make light of it, although her voice was strained, her weariness evident from her bowed head, the way she failed to meet his eyes. "Hell, it's not like I haven't died before, right? The first time around, I barely even noticed."

"Don't say that. Anyway, you've only seen one doctor. A human doctor. You should see a salarian. Get a second opinion." His mind had leapt to Mordin Solus, but of course, the salarian had passed away decades ago. Still, maybe they could track down one of his old students, someone nearly as gifted...

She'd touched his talon gently, leaning into his shoulder. "Okay. Another opinion."

"It's worth trying."

In this case, there'd been little he could do, except accompany her to the hospital for more scans and then to the various oncologists and neurologists and radiologists, preparing her meals and administering her pain medication in the recommended doses. He wasn't a doctor. He'd barely passed his mandatory military first aid training. He could not fix brain cancer, what the oncologist had described as _Oligodendroglioma_, the ugliest word he could imagine. It reminded him of what'd happened to his mother and definitely gave him a new appreciation for what Solana went through taking care of her. Back then, he'd sent money to support his mother's care and spent time on the extranet researching various treatments, but he hadn't had to witness the suffering firsthand, to feel helpless against it. It was that feeling that'd made him want to a fist through a wall.

Jill had been brave for 431 days before she died, enduring the headaches, vision problems and spells of dizziness, the ravages of the chemotherapy and the sudden shifts in mood, jolts from happiness to irritation to uncharacteristic despair that were enough to induce whip-lash. It was as if the tumour was the Thorian creature's karmic revenge, its malignant tentacles spreading through her brain, playing puppeteer with its thrall.

Sometimes she would apologize for these bouts of weakness. "I'm sorry. I know I'm a pain in the ass right now. I'll talk to the doctors. I'll take more meds. I could go to a hospice and you could visit me and-"

"Are you joking? No way in hell. And I don't want to hear you say sorry again. There's nothing to forgive."

"There's everything to forgive. You've been so patient with me. Always so damn patient."

Secretly, he worried that the radiation on Palaven had caused her illness or that somehow, he'd exposed her to dangerous metals through their closeness. Jill's theory was that the Prothean artefacts had done it. They hadn't been created for humans and she'd taken a substantial risk each time she'd come into contact with one and used the Cipher. She'd been so quick to absolve him of any guilt, so grateful for everything he'd done for her and when she was herself, she'd shown the same humour and grit that she'd always had, never losing the dauntless courage that'd made him fall in love with her. A few hours before she died, she'd been cracking jokes, teasing him until he rewarded her with a laugh.

Vakarian finishes his drink, noticing that his vision is clouded and his neck has to work harder to support the weight of his head, which keeps tilting backward as he slumps down into his chair. He's old and in shameful condition for ex-military and a C-Sec veteran, although he's still pretty spry by civilian standards. When Jill was around, he used to take care of his physique – cardio every day, weight training every other day, unless he was on active duty, in which case he didn't have to worry about a lack of exercise. He'd started drinking to comfort himself after the diagnosis, something he relied on to get himself through, anaesthesia, like the pills Jill took, like the morphine they gave her near the end, when the doctors conceded defeat and left her to battle on against an impossible enemy.

The state funeral had been decorous, solemn and completely unlike the Jill Shepard he'd known, the eulogies were so reverent and awestruck they sounded as if they'd been written by Conrad Verner. Whoever had taken care of her body had done a good job of disguising the weight loss she'd suffered during the chemo. The paint on her gaunt, but still-lovely face and the white wig over her cropped hair created the illusion that she'd been healthy, that she'd simply drifted off to sleep and never woken up. This probably comforted the other mourners and the people watching on the news vids, but it frustrated him. It was dishonest and he felt as if it invalidated her suffering, the pain and the struggle and the torturous, ever-hopeful love that they'd shared in those last months. Tali, Grunt, Samara, Kasumi, Miranda, even Legion...all the surviving members of the Normandy crew put in an appearance, except for Jack, who, true-to-form, showed up two weeks late, looking scrawny and haggard as an flea-bitten, old alley cat, with a new tattoo of a pistol featuring the initials 'J.S.'. At first, he'd planned on telling her to go to hell but she'd brought alcohol and seemed almost apologetic, so he'd let her come in and they'd reminisced about old times and poisoned their livers. After she left, he'd kept drinking and he hadn't stopped.

The truth was, before the cancer, he'd tricked himself into thinking that Jill couldn't die, not again, not after everything they'd survived together. It was a cruel joke that it took her own body to kill her, especially since she'd always been so fit and healthy, confident that her physical training wouldn't fail her. Even after they'd buried her in a memorial specially set up in the Presidium Gardens, part of him still expected her to show up one day out of the blue, when he needed her most and least expected it.

He looks at the door hopefully, but she doesn't stride in dressed in her old N-7 armour, dodging gunfire and shooting mercs as she marches towards him. It is a ridiculous wish and he is a ridiculous old drunk. It occurs to him that he should feel ashamed of himself. In his youth, he'd disapproved of General Septimus, that legendary turian commander who'd turned into a grumbling old sot over a foolish infatuation with the Consort. Now, by the spirits, he'd become just like the man, although he had the excuse of having been in love with a better woman and having truly lost her, after nearly half a century of companionship. It is a cruel irony. Looking down at his empty glass, he laughs, a bitter sound from his raspy throat.

Leaning on the table, he gets to his feet, saunters over to the bar and pays his tab, leaving a good tip for Mara and her green eyes. Out in the street, people are still celebrating and a couple of rowdy salarian kids race by, shouting "Happy New Year!" at him as they pass. Considering the amount of scotch he's put back, he's remarkably steady on his feet, although he does have some trouble entering and exiting the elevator up to the Presidium apartment complex. After rifling through his pockets and uttering a few choice words, he finds his keycard and enters the comfortable flat that he and Jill had shared for the past fifteen years.

He takes his heart medication and prepares himself for bed, folding and putting away his clothes as he always does before sleep, although his work is clumsy.

I need to stop drinking, he thinks. He knows that Jill wouldn't like this new habit of his, just as she disapproved of his taste for revenge and the extreme lengths he once went to satiate it. She'd give him hell for putting his health at risk, for behaving so recklessly when he was smart enough to know better. Knowing her, she'd appeal to his stubbornness and his self-respect and if that failed, she'd put on her old commander's voice and phrase it as an order. His turian military training and her leadership were so deeply ingrained in his mind that sometimes she'd actually been able to get away with that, causing him to snap to, like they were still on the Normandy. If Jill were around, she could've convinced him to change, but now that she was gone, he'd have to convince himself.

Tomorrow, he decides, as he slips beneath the bed covers, he will throw out any alcohol still remaining in the apartment. Ignoring his hangover, he will get up and ease himself into the exercises that he used to do every morning. After a healthy breakfast, he will walk down to the C-Sec Veterans' Affairs Office and arrange for some sort of gainful occupation, work for the public good, so that he's no longer moping around the apartment.

When he's finished there and he's caught up with old colleagues, maybe he'll go down to the shooting range and take out some of his frustration on the red and white targets.

At dinner, he'll eat at his favourite restaurant in the Wards, Karma, a place that he and Jill used to go often, but he won't order his usual glass of red wine.

In the evening, he'll practice his domus game, playing both the white and the black pieces and ensuring that black side wins, because those were the ones Jill always took. He'll watch the news, keeping note of the latest developments in the project to re-build the quarian homeworld. The affairs of the galaxy will start to matter to him again, because he'll realize that he still has purpose and meaning and skills to offer.

He will not look at the door expectantly. He will not envision Jill Shepard racing towards him, just as she was when she ran through the scope of his rifle, not knowing that he was Archangel and that his heart was hammering in his chest, his blood singing through his veins at the very sight of her. It'd been a miracle, but tomorrow, he will not hope and yearn and even occasionally, pray, for that miracle to repeat itself. No, tomorrow, he will cure himself of this drunken pining and resume being a contributing member of society. Jill will be so proud of him and he will feel better, knowing that her spirit lingers in these rooms, the place where they lived together and passed many happy years and some arduous ones too, times of trial, effort and accomplishment. These are his New Year's resolutions.

He is so full of aspirations, so wound up with good intentions that he quickly tires and falls into the kind of sleep that he has only discovered in his old age, a comforting, unknowable and seemingly infinite darkness that soothes every ache and eases every doubt. Right before he drifts off, he remembers following Jill into battle and he chuckles, thinking of the phrase he used to say in his eagerness to impress the Spectre with his loyalty, his steadfastness, his willingness to learn: "Right behind you, Shepard".

The next morning, the young turian sergeant, Arsom Meridan, knocks on Executor Vakarian's door, wishing to check on him. He has admired Vakarian since he was a young recruit on Taetrus and part of him is hoping that the old veteran will be in a sociable mood and invite him in. When Vakarian doesn't answer, Sgt. Meridan knocks again and then prods at the door mechanism in disappointment. He is utterly surprised when the door slides open, but it is not magic, just a matter of luck. In his drunken return home, Executor Vakarian forgot to lock the door behind him.

Sgt. Meridan steps across the threshold, leaning into the apartment and looking around. The place is in good condition, neat and orderly except for the empty wine bottles on the kitchen counter.

"Executor Vakarian? Sir? It's Sergeant Arsom Meridan from C-Sec. I wanted to stop by and ensure that everything was well, because if there's anything I can do to be of assistance to you, it would be my honour..."

There is no answer, although the young officer sees Vakarian's credit chit lying on the dining table. Surely he would not leave the house without it.

He peers down at the holos arranged carefully on a nearby desk. There are images of a human female at various ages, the woman he recognizes as Commander and later, Councillor, Shepard, the general's wife, who is something of a legend on the Citadel, although he has never encountered her in person. Some of the pictures are taken at parties with the general, who appears much younger and taller, although his face bears the same distinctive scars. Other holos were obviously taken on trips across the galaxy. He recognizes Tuchanka, Palaven and Illium, although the picture with a rickety iron tower poking at a blue sky has no meaning for him. He has never seen Earth or heard of the old, beautiful city that humans call Paris. What he can discern from the pictures is that the general was once a happy man, one who didn't need to stumble through his days in a drunken haze.

"Sir, I realize that this is highly unorthodox, but I feel that unusual circumstances sometimes require - " Sgt. Meridan stops in mid-sentence, seeing General Vakarian lying in his bed, the blankets tucked up under his mandibles.

He will go and check the veteran's pulse just for form's sake, but it is already evident to the officer that he is dead. When he leans over the body, he is startled to see that Vakarian's scarred face is set in a smile, as if he were greeting an old friend.


End file.
